Broken Birds fly to Roanupur
by Vengeful Soldier
Summary: War leaves scars on all soldiers, and soldiers unable to bear those scars go to Roanupur. Will an ex-Soviet gunship pilot make a difference in the city of sin, or will he succumb to the darkness that surrounds Roanupur?
1. Wings Clipped

Chapter1 Wings Clipped

It was a hot day the day that 1st lieutenant Antanov Yeghevich lost his wings in Afghanistan. It was 1986, and a detachment of the 103rd Guards gunship squadron had been called upon to aid a detatchment of surrounded VDV. The war had been escalating, and becoming increasingly dangerous for helicopter pilots, as the Mujaheddin had recently acquired American surface to air stinger missile launchers. The VDV request had come in 8 minutes before for close air support, and the conflict promised a target rich environment with minimal risk to the helicopter crews.

The 3 mi-24 hind gunships flew in a loose inverted v formation going low and fast over the dry desert, down wash from the rotors kicking up miniature sandstorms as they flew over. Antanov was to the right of the flight leader in Volga flight. His job was to "officially" warn the flight of any incoming stingers, but unofficially to flip right the fuck out when a missile was launched, and scream over the radio so everyone would know to take evasive manoeuvres, and politely get out of the way. After all incoming fire has the right of way.

The hinds were empty on this mission. Not meaning of course that they were unarmed. They had enough fire power combined to wage a small war, which in a way was what they were going to do, and god help anyone who got in their way. By being empty it meant that they were not carrying any soldiers in the crew compartments of their helicopters, meaning that they could fly faster, stay in the area longer, and actually hover in their sleek crocodiles.

When completely loaded up with soldiers and weapons, the hinds would have to make a rolling take off just like fixed wing aircraft. That always pissed Antanov off. In his words helicopters are supposed to go vertical when flying. Not get a running start at it.

Antanov was one of the youngest pilots in the squadron when the conflict began, but also the most promising. He had graduated from Moscow flight school at the very top of his class, and his instructors said that he could make the hind, "dance"through the air. Antanov had received several awards and recommendations from the prestigious school, and his favourite instructor Markov had said that he had a bright future in the military over a bottle of vodka on the classes graduation night, in February of 1979. It wasn't long after graduation that he was called to war in Afghanistan along with the rest of the 103rd Guards airborne Division.

Antanov had been in Afghanistan now for six years, and was now 26 years old. It had been fun in the beginning, flying in his Hind over the hot sands spearheading the Soviet advance into the little backwater country, and completely crushing any resistance along the way. The offensive into Afghanistan had been short, and extremely bloody for the Afghans, and Antanov had wished that the conflict could have lasted longer, because he had never felt more alive than behind the controls of a gunship in battle. He quickly began to regret his wish.

While officially the Soviet war in Afghanistan had been an outstanding success, and the war had been won, the war was anything but over. Resistance began to escalate through the country, as bands of tribesmen whom Soviet high command had labelled of negligible importance began to rise up into armed fighting bands, assaulting soviet convoys, and attacking outposts. Antanov had been ecstatic at the news. Although Yurri his gunner had just grumbled something about having to stay in Afghanistan longer than was absolutely necessary was more apathetic than Antanov and had "grudgingly" taken one for the team, and accepted a night of Vodka shots that Antanov had insisted on paying for, and Yurri had graciously accepted.

Yurri had graduated from Moscow Gunnery school at the top of his class, and was said that he could write his name in the ground as he passed, but Antanov hadn't believed him until he called him out on it and Yurri had in anger one day fired out a long burst in the middle of nowhere going on a hunter killer mission. On the way back Yurri had told him to look down for a unique land mark reference, and written in the sand clear as day was the word, "Yurri". Although Antanov would never admit it he was a bit of a sore loser. So on a verification pass he had "accidentally" flown too close to the writing, and the down wash from the rotors had completely by "mistake" erased the writing. Although Yurri was annoyed he wore a smile all the way back to base. Antanov now owed him 1000 ruble's.

They had made a name for themselves in hunting out the bands of freedom fighters, and getting the highest kill count in the division. With Yurri's peerless gunnery, and Antanov's superb flying, they had earned the nickname the White Cossacks. Mostly because of the fact they were reckless in their fighting, flying just above roof tops, and diving down for a strafing run, and just barely pulling out in time to avoid making their own hind shaped impression in the desert sand.

The white part wasn't as dashing and heroic. Antanov and Yurri had both contracted dysentery one week, and had gone on a mission without realizing it at first. Well the symptoms had made themselves quite well known on the way back, and the rest of the flight were worried when their hind was suddenly flying at max power back towards base. Their hind had touched down in an uncharacteristically heavy landing, and then both of them had bolted from the hind without even waiting for it to fully power down. They had made a beeline for the latrines heedless of who or what was in their way, at one point almost repainting a landing MIG. Apparently their faces were as white as sheets, the whole run to the latrines, so white was added in front of the Cossack.

The base commander had personally chewed them out for that one saying that next time they had better shit their pants, before endangering other pilots lives and soviet equipment like that ever again. Two days later 3lbs of camel shit inadvertently found its was into that mans dress uniform pants. Antanov strongly suspected Yurri, but he swore up and down on his mother's grave that he didn't do it. Antanov would have believed him if not for one tiny detail. Yurri's mother routinely sent him cookies. Which the bastard ALWAYS refused to share.

The first loss had been a shock to the Pilots of the 103rd. They had thought themselves invincible to the little backwards Afghan tribesmen, and their outdated Lee En field rifles. Antanov had been flying with Sergei that day, on a routine mission spreading the so aptly nick named butterfly mines to deny area to insurgents, when a puff of smoke bloomed into existence on a ridge, and a missile screamed out towards them. Antanov had tried to warn Sergei of the danger, but there simply wasn't enough time. The missile homed right in on the heat exhaust of his engine. The stinger hit the hind amidships, and with the butterfly mines aboard, made it explode spectacularly. The shock wave had shook Antanov's hind, and caused him to lose over 1000 feet of altitude.

Another stinger went for Antanov, but dumping all the mines he pushed the hind to full military power, and went into a near vertical climb. Just before the stinger impacted he flipped the hind over onto its belly and barrel rolled to the right causing the stinger to go wide and miss. Antanov and Yurri then flew low to the ridge taking as much power as the hind could give, and turning it all to speed. The hind pitched forward like a predator going in for a kill. They had seen the Mujaheddin members try to fumble a new rocket into the unfamiliar American weapon. Upon seeing the fast approaching hind the Mujaheddin members had thrown down the weapons they had murdered Sergei with and tried to kill Antanov and Yurri with. Yurri's fifty calibre swivel mounted Machine gun spat death at them, the falling brass glittering like gold rain, while Antanov unleashed a barrage of 82mm rockets. The so called freedom fighter had tried to flee when they had made their attack run. They died running, tossed the air like some demented child's toys, or chased down and consumed in a stream of hot lead.

The Hind seemed to roar in in victory as it passed overhead, casting its shadow over the remains of the Mujaheddin as if daring them to have the audacity to continue living and offer a better fight to it.

They had stood a vigil over Sergei's crash site, after radioing in what had happened. They stayed until their fuel began to drop dangerously low causing them to have to leave their friend in the burning wreckage of his beloved hind. Antanov rocked the helicopter in a farewell before he left. The hind itself seemed sullen as it was forced to turn and fly away.

Sergei had been a good friend. A womanizer with a crush on a nurse whom he used any and every excuse he could use to get to see her. We had laughed at him, and his antics then congratulated him when he was able to gain access to her bed. Despite his womanizing it was obvious he loved her. He stopped shamelessly flirting with anything with a skirt, and had sold all of his illicit American playboys to some ground pounders from the 82nd Rifle Division. When they went through his things they found an engagement ring. He was going to propose to the attractive nurse he had pestered and taken every opportunity to see. She wept when she heard the news.

Antanov had never gotten to know Sergei's gunner, but he remembered him being a kind man who drank very little, and had a passion for good literature. Antanov had never heard a bad word about his gunner. Always willing to help, and never having a bad word in turn about anyone else. He had apparently come from a poor family closer to the Urals. They had found a tenderly wrapped framed certificate. His graduation certificate from Moscow Gunnery school. His most cherished possession. Antanov felt guilty for not getting to know him better.

They had held a quiet memorial for them that night on the tarmac in front of their hinds. A toast of Vodka, and a moment of silence seemed too little to honour their friend. They didn't deserve to die that way, it just didn't seem real that they could die. Not members of their little family. Death was something that happened to other people in other units. It was on that solemn desert night that the true realities of war began to become clear to Antanov.

As more and more of their friends began to fall to American supplied stingers, and soviet equipment the 103rd became more vigilant. Flying faster, tighter, and always vigilant. What seemed like a heavier blow than it should have been was the fact that the Mujaheddin were using captured soviet equipment too shoot down more helicopters. It just wasn't right.

Flying became harder as the new faces had shown up. Fresh from flight school, each and every one of them thinking they were an ace, or some kind of fucking cowboy. We didn't trust them, and they thought we were uptight scared war veterans who had lost their nerve, and couldn't hack it anymore. The stupid ones died, and the smart ones followed our example, and eventually became accepted into our family. It was strange being 26 and being an old timer of the Division.

We were sad when our friends were wounded, and had to leave us, but also happy that they would be able leave this hell hole alive. When Dmitri got shot down he and his gunner Ivan got discharged on medical grounds. Dmitri was the Division clown, and Ivan his partner in crime. We threw them a farewell party complete with Vodka, Cigars, and a heavily bribed buxom clerk to act as a stripper. Dmitri and Ivan kept us laughing and in good spirits with their jokes and antics until the small hours of the morning. We bid them goodnight reluctantly, and the buxom clerk sat on each of their laps and gave each of them a good-bye kiss while wiggling enthusiastically. No one mentioned Dmitri's missing arm, or Ivans missing leg until they did themselves.

"Well comrades", began Dmitri," "it looks like the cost of this war is so high it costs us an arm," as Dmitri held up his stump, "and a leg just to get in" finished Ivan as he held up his stump of a leg. One final joke for us to remember them by. " We laughed so hard we cried. It was easier that way. We could cry then in mirth or misery and none would be the wiser.

When Antanov's and Yurri's tour was done, by an unspoken consent they had both agreed to sign on for another. Neither wanted to leave their family alone, and leave the new recruits to fend for themselves. They had both swore up and down to each other that neither of them were signing on for another tour, because the other was. If either had fears about dying by signing on for another tour neither voiced it. To talk about death was to invite it in.

Antanov and Yurri became a legend in the division for courage under fire, and even landing in the middle of a firefight to extract wounded soldiers who wouldn't have made it otherwise. Both became heavily decorated for bravery, and courage under fire. They admired the medals, especially the attention it brought from the female counterparts. Antanov liked to show them off, but they didn't do it for decoration. They did it because they wanted all of the soviet soldiers, most no more than boys to make it home alive. They were getting very tired of watching their friends die.

As Volga Flight made its way towards the entrapped V.D.V. It had an air of fierce determination about it. The formation looked loose, but they moved as one, and each watched the others blind spots. The sun glinted menacingly off of their cockpits, and weapon mounts. They moved like the crocodiles they were so aptly nick named after, gracefully moving through the air hunting for their next meal. The air was their territory, and any Mujaheddin their prey.

Antanov decided to try and strike up a conversation with Yurri to pass the time.

"Hey Yurri" began Antanov coyly.

"Yes" said Yurri with a tone of mistrust, he recognized that tone of voice.

"Do you know what Yuri means in Japan?"

Yurri could tell Antanov was smirking by the tone of his voice.

"I'm going to regret this but what?"

"It means when two women have sex with each other".

"..."

"You mean like Lesbians"?

"Exactly my good friend, exactly like lesbians."

"HA Ha ha, I didn't know my very name inspired women to compete to please me."

"I more interpreted it as women turning gay to avoid having to go anywhere near you"

"Fuck you Antanov".

"I Don't do screw ugly girls Yurri."

"That didn't stop you with your mother did it Antanov?"

"That was just uncalled for Yurri."

"Yeah she was quite dissatisfied your performance."

"Really"said Antanov he pretended to ponder for a while. "But your mother seemed so satisfied with my performance."

"And you say you don't screw ugly girls."

"Your mom ugly?"

"She's 300lbs."

"Ewww."

"Yeah so have as much fun with her as you want chubby chaser."

"As much as I enjoy intelligent conversation amongst my flight, keep that sort of things to yourselves". Mikhail interrupted over the radio. "Or at the very least keep your conquests to yourselves." There was muffled laughter, and snickers over the radio.

Mikhail Zobratsky was a middle aged man in his early forties,and he was routinely put in charge of Squadron fitness. He seemed like he would fit in better being a teacher than as a trained killer. He was always patient with new recruits, and he was the Squadrons surrogate father. Never too harsh or too lenient, and his hair was just starting to turn grey. His black eyes showing nothing but endless patience, and care. He had been unofficially adopted by the squadron as a surrogate father for his understanding ways, or as Dmitri and Ivan had called him Pappa Mikhail. Then they had asked for a horsey ride. Once, and Mikhail had obliged by shoving his boot up their asses, and dragging them by the ear to the discipline sergeant for punishment. It just reinforced his image as Pappa Mikhail.

Though no one was stupid enough to call him it to his face. Except for Dmitri and Ivan when they were still around. They were slow learners it seemed. He was called to different parts of the division from time to time to help iron out any problems with the new recruits.

"He had only gotten mad once in Antanovs memory, and it had been because some hind crews had taken it upon themselves to beat a forward scout who had reported an area clear of hostiles, only for it to become a deathtrap when they had tried to move troops through. We had lost two hinds fully loaded with infantry. All dead. He had walked right into the middle of the throng of irate gunship crews, and interposed himself between them and the bleeding scout. He had told them that they had lost enough people for the day, and that turning on each other wasn't the answer. He said if they wanted vengeance, to take it out on the Mujaheddin. He had helped the scout to the infirmary, and said he wanted everyone to report for disciplinary action at 5:30 the next morning. He didn't take names or look at unit ID. He didn't need to. Everyone had shown up without exception.

"Also Antanov." continued Mikhail.

"Yes?"replied Antanov.

"Good Job I'm proud of you."

Antanov was a little confused, but felt pride swell in his chest at the compliment from their adoptive father. "For what?" he asked curious to know what he was getting praise for.

"Well in my experience," he paused for effect, and Antanov was hanging on his every word.

"Big girls need love too, so good for you."

Antanov felt the stirrings of pride in his chest get crushed with the force of a pile driver.

"What?" he exclaimed incredulous.

"Yeah continued Mikhail, but that whole business with your mom is a little strange." You should really stop that."

"I didn't sleep with my mom!"

"Of Course not interjected Yurri." For once though Antanov Yurri is backing me up on this. However if he had been paying more attention he would of noticed the playful tone in Yurri's voice. "You were up allll night with her." Yurri made the best hip thrust he could manage while still strapped into the hind, and accompanied it with feminine moans. Antanovs blue eyes blazed, and he quickly decelerated to almost stall speed , and then went to max power in the space of about 2 seconds. Giving Yurri a little bit of whiplash. Yurri just looked back through his little bubble back into Antanovs, locking his brown eyes with Antanovs blue. They stared at each other for a moment then burst out laughing. It was moments like this that kept them sane.

"Cut the chatter. Came Mikhail's voice over the Radio 5 mikes to target." The laughter stopped immediately, and was replaced with serious expressions worn by all members of the flight. The Forward machine gun swivelled like some ancient predator sniffing trying to catch the scent of its next meal. The Rocket pods swivelled up and down like it was flexing its muscles in preparation.

Despite the danger Antanov felt the familiar excitement build up in him. He was about to go into combat again behind the controls of his hind. The Euphoric feeling was like a natural high. He felt his heart rate increase,and his senses become almost unnaturally sharp. He was almost jittery from the pre-combat rush. His hands were just itching to push down the firing studs that would mean death for any in his way.

Yurri's deep baritone voice brought him to his senses. "Calm down Antanov, we do this nice and easy, and we all go home." He was using the internal intercom system. His words were for Antanov's ears only. "We work as a flight, save some crazy people who jump out of perfectly good aircraft, and go home safe and sound."

Antanov felt his heart rate return to a more stable rhythm, and he became far less jittery. "Thanks Yuri, almost got caught up in the moment." He forced a short laugh, and focused on the fast approaching village. "Don't mention it" said Yurri.

One thing that terrified Antanov to his core was that he enjoyed more than the fight, and the rush of combat. That he enjoyed the killing, and that's why he signed on for another tour. Damn helping the new guys, they're just fodder so Antanov can keep killing people, as many people as he possibly can, and get a pat on the head, and a chest full of metal for it.

Antanov forced himself out of his revere, and became completely focused at the task at hand. Men who spent too much time thinking were dead men.

Black smoke drifted lazily out of the village ahead, curling its way into the pale blue sky above it. The village was built right next to an oasis, and was probably a trading hub for miles around as it had water. The Deserts currency, and plenty of it. The land around the village was flat for miles around, and it was all desert.

Antanov saw explosions, and the occasional tracer fire coming from the distance. The VDV had taken cover in what appeared to be a school house. It was a two story structure, and was flying the soviet flag, to mark their position. The flag was tattered, and full of holes. He saw what appeared to be Pick-up trucks with heavy machine guns on the back pouring fire into the school, with more Mujaheddin freedom fighters trying to storm the building by sheer weight of numbers.

"Volga flight this is Volga lead how copy over?"

Volga lead this is Volga two read you 5 by 5 over."

"Volga Lead this is Volga 3 read you five by five over." The responses were automatic, and Antanov gripped the control column just a little tighter. It was almost time.

"Friendlies are confirmed in the school house." "We are to avoid fire on the school house at any cost anything beyond is fair game, how copy?" "Volga lead this is Volga two copy on your last over." Volga lead this is Volga three copy on your last over." Mikhail always spoke in his calm school teachers voice before combat. Like he was discussing the weather, or a particularly interesting story in the paper. Not telling us how to kill people.

Volga flight had gained altitude to make their attack run, and now it was time. "Volga flight follow my lead, the VDV know to keep their heads down." Mikhail had given the last order he ever would. Antanov turned with the rest of Volga flight into an attack run. Antanov felt the force of the G\s, and acceleration push him back into his seat. He felt the dizzying effect of rapidly losing altitude, and the ground sprinting by. They had the sun at their backs, and the Mujaheddin hadn't seen them until it was too late.

The effect was outstanding, they had descended in tight order in perfect formation. They had even begun firing at the same time. Rockets picked up the rag tag freedom fighter and thrown their pieces everywhere. The Gunners swept left to right over the kill zone finishing any who had survived the initial bombardment.

The flight of hinds passed over the village at roof top level causing an artificial sandstorm as they passed. It had been text book perfect. Rockets demolished building causing them to collapse, while the .50 cal munitions chased down any stragglers in a spray of blood. Antanov was using his rockets like he had planned where to send each one before he came. He caught several trucks, as they tried to return fire turning them into fireballs, and tossing them up into the air like discarded toys. The Mujaheddin were running and now it was time to finish them off.

The hinds flew past the end of the village at an excess of 140mph with Mikhail going straight, then start a climbing turn while Antanov went into a wide right turn, and Volga 3 went into a wide left. They had regained their altitude, and just had to turn back into position for another attack run. Then all hell broke loose. Mikhail uttered his last words before being consumed in a barrage of guided missiles.

"STINGERS!" Mikhail screamed over the radio. Mikhail tried to evade going into a steep dive, and deploying flares. In the end there was just too many missiles. 3 were decoyed by the flares, and 1 was evaded by Mikhail's flying skills. However as he pulled out of his dive into a savage right turn, another 3 struck the hind in the tail, engine, and cockpit. Mikhail and his faithful gunner Zebreyich were dead.

Zebrevich was a large man like Yuri, standing at 6.5 was a full two inches taller that Yuri, and a full 5 and a half over Antanov. He was a man with a surly disposition, and was always in for disciplinary hearings. He was also a man who loved animals, taking in and caring for any strays that wandered by the base. Mikhail had been the perfect pilot for him. His patience and kindness winning over the large Siberian, where no one else could. It didn't seem to matter anymore though, because they were dead

Volga 3 also known as Sasha was more successful as was Antanov Sasha did a simple flare and bank, while Antanov flipped his hind over, and did a rapid series of turns, and rolls, and cleanly avoided all missiles. Mikhail had taken the hits, for no other reason, than he was closer. He had saved them with his death.

The flight combat order had been destroyed, and the flight was in disarray. It had been a trap. Why else would they launch such an attack so close to a major soviet airbase, able to dispatch gunships or fixed wing aircraft at a moments notice? Antanov's suspicions were confirmed when triple AAA began opening up, the tracers chasing, and shredding Sasha's tail. It was barely holding together when he and his gunner Sonny broke contact, and fled.

The mujaheddin were now emerging from all over village hefting RPG's, assault rifles, and demolition charges. The VDV had served their purpose, and now they were going to be disposed of.

Antanov felt his blood boil. He wasn't going to run like Sasha, and there was no way in hell he was going to let them kill the VDV like they had murdered Mikhail and Zebreyich. Antanov looked to Yurri, who simply looked back. They didn't need to use the intercom they were both thinking the same thing. Years of fighting, and working together had made an almost supernatural connection between the two, being able to predict each others actions, and seemingly be able to read each others minds. A nod was all it took.

With a deep breath Antanov swung the hind into a screaming dive. The hind seemed angry and eager for blood, seemingly shrieking as the air went past challenging all those below.

The Mujaheddin were incredulous as a lone hind was making an attack run on them. They laughed and turned their considerable firepower to bare. A fusillade of missiles and streams of hot tracer rose to meet them. Seconds before the missiles impacted, and the tracers found their mark, which would turn Antanov and Yurri's hind into nothing but a memory Antanov made his hind "dance." He rolled the hind on its side, over on its back, barrel rolling and weaving through the missiles, deploying flares out like shooting stars, and looping through the tracer fire. At times causing the missiles to miss completely, and at others by no more than a hairsbreadth. Dancing a deadly dance with the streams of tracers, seeming to kiss them before dancing away again. The seemingly bulky hind appeared to weigh no more than a feather in Antanov's hands as it weaved through the air with more grace than was thought humanly possible.

The missiles stopped flying up to meet them, and the tracers had no hope of catching them. The hind seemed to grin at the plight of its prey savouring the moment before it spat death at them.

A line of explosions tore holes in their ranks, as 82mm missiles carved their way through them, each point accentuated with an explosion of fire and shrapnel, tearing man and machine apart in its fiery death.

The stinger missile launcher operators were desperately trying to reload when Yurri found his mark. He began sweeping the roofs clean staining the white roofs red with the blood of the Tribesmen. Just before Antanov was about to crash the hind into the ground, he pulled hard, and led with the left side of the hind, only a few feet off the ground flying sideways they continued down the street firing all the while, mowing down countless Mujaheddin. They left a glittering trail of brass down the length of the street. At the end Antanov pulled the hind up in a vertical climb, doing a backwards loop to avoid another missile, before going in for another run.

It was a deadly dance that they did. The hind would rise and fall, and each time it would claim more than the last time, and it avoided the missiles being shot at it with seemingly contemptuous ease.

They caused the mujaheddin to run in terror from them and they began shooting their AK's wildly at them. The bullets sounded like steel hammers pounding on the outside of the hind, but was as affective as pissing on a forest fire.

After just pulling of a dive, and flying about 8 feet off the ground Antanov saw a trio of stingers fly towards the cockpit. Antanov felt cold dread in his stomach. There was no evading this, they were going to die. Time seemed to slow as Antanov saw the missiles close in. Then a miracle happened. Yurri Showed the most amazing gunnery skills ever witnessed in the whole history of the soviet air force, and Antanov had never seen repeated. He began shooting them down.

The entire time they were closing Yurri was firing. Antanov was too transfixed to look away, the first exploded in a fireball, and then black smoke. The second was batted of course by the heavy .50 calibre shells. The last missile and the hind raced down the centre of the street towards each other, the hind spitting its shells, and the stinger missile Screaming down the street.

Closer and closer they raced, 60 feet. The Missile adjusted to a straight on impact. 40 feet, Yurri narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth. 20 feet, Antanov shut his eyes, and waited for the end. 10 feet Yurri smiled as his gun clicked dry. At 5 feet the missile exploded, and the hind tore through the smoke cloud it had left in its wake. Antanov opened his eyes and used the last of his rockets to obliterate the trio of dumbstruck Mujaheddin.

.

Antanov pulled up sharply, all the while he and Yurri were cheering loudly, unable to believe they had done it. The White Cossacks had cheated death of his prize, and against all odds had won. They had just made Soviet military history, saved a full company of VDV, and had single handedly taken on nearly a full battalion of Mujaheddin and scattered or annihilated them. They were alive, and they had been sure that they were going to die.

The hind pitched violently, and became sluggish to command. The last remaining triple AAA gun had struck the tail rotor, in a lucky hit. The twenty millimetre shells unable to penetrate the fuselage began shredding the tail. The hind seemed to moan in pain. Unable to return fire or to now evade they were forced to endure the punishment. What Antanov saw next made his heart stop. There on the ground was a tribesmen in rich clothes, and a shouldered stinger. With a wash of back blast the missile rose to meet them.

Antanov was dead and he knew it. With the tail shredded, he had no legs to run. He had used the last of his flares long ago, so he had no shield with which to defend himself. They had shot off the last of their armaments, so they had no sword to swing back with. Antanov swung the hind so the tail faced the incoming missile. It was the best that he could do, it was all he could do.

Antanov called out Yurri's name but it was unnecessary. He saw the missile too. They shared a knowing look. No words were needed to say their silent goodbye they had become the best of friends, comrades in arms. They had fought to keep each other alive for six long years, and now their time was up.

The sound of the impact was deafening inside the cockpit and it made Antanov temporarily deaf. The hind bucked wildly and was pitched forward as the missile impacted, and the tail rotor was completely disintegrated. The hind spun in circles out of control, the G,s sucking Antanov and Yurri back hard into their seats as the world spun like some twisted merry go round. Antanov was deaf to the world, but could still hear his own laboured breathing as they fell from the sky like a broken bird. Antanov's blood thundered in his ears. It was then that Antanov for the first time of the war felt cold Terror.

Antanov and Yurri were Going to join Sergei, and his quiet gunner, their surrogate father Mikhail, whom they hadn't even had time to grieve for yet, Zebrevich Mikhail's gunner who had a surly attitude, but a love for animals, and the rest of the friends that they had lost over the years. Too many to name but they knew them all. Time seemed to stop for a moment just above the ground.

The hind impacted the ground, and the rotors went first. Taking two great gouges out of the ground before breaking free, and whistling away. The hind hit with with a lot of forward momentum causing them to carve a trench out of the sandy road, and causing the sand to cascade over the canopy. Antanov's view was blocked by cascading sand, and then turned black as his head pitched forwards, and crashed into the front of his little bubble.

Antanov came around slowly his vision bark, throat dry and sore, and he couldn't feel his left leg. He reached up to wipe sweat off his face, and his glove came away sticky and dark. It was blood. His sandy blonde hair was adhering to his head from a mixture of blood, and sweat. His breath came hard, and he had trouble breathing. He looked to the front of the hind to the gunnery seat to find Yurri, and check on him but found the front compartment empty.

A groaning protest of metal on metal caused Antanov to look to his side. To his relief he saw Yurri on the outside of the hind trying to force the side door open. The cords were standing out clearly on Yurri's neck. Yurri said his uncle had been an Olympic boxer, and Yurri had trained under him, gaining much of the bulk, and muscle that he now had through hours of rigorous practice.

With a final groan of protest the door gave way, and Antanov was assaulted by the smell of Cordite, smoke, the sickly sweet smell of burning flesh, and death. Yurri's brown hair was discoloured, and was wet from the blood of a gash on his head. He had discarded his flight helmet, and had only his flight suit, and an AK-74u slung over his shoulder. Each Mi-24 hind gunship had an AK in the cockpit with the flight crew to give them a better chance if ever forced down.

Antanov felt immediately at ease, despite the numbing of his body. Yurri was going to look after him, he would be all right.

Yurri leaned in and started to undo the harnesses holding Antanov into the hind

"It's going to be alright Antanov I've got you now."

Antanov tried to say something, but it came out as a strangled croak.

"Don't worry we'll be fine I can carry you and the VDV are just around the corner, we are both going to make it out of here, you and me." He gave Antanov a reassuring smile, and finished unstrapping him from the hind. Then his head exploded, and showered Antanov with the remains.

It wasn't real thought Antanov in dull horror. Yurri can't be dead. Yurri his steadfast and best friend. Yurri the man who teased Antanov relentlessly about anything and everything. Yurri who had defended him in bar fights, when he had too much to drink, and laughed about it with him in the stockade the next morning. Yurri the man who always remembered Antanov's birthday and got him a present while Antanov invariably forgot, and forgave him when he gave Yurri some half assed present when it was his birthday. Yurri the man who had stayed up late and talked with Antanov about their ambitions, and dreams in the barracks.

Yurri's lifeless body hit the ground with a dull thump, and the sand began to turn red. There was a crunch of approaching footsteps coming over the hot sand.

It just couldn't have happened, it had to be a bad dream one that Antanov was going to wake up from at any moment. Yes that's it was all just a bad dream, none of this had happened. Antanov was going to wake up and he and Yurri would laugh about this together in the mess hall. Just a bad dream. All just a bad dream. With a final crunch a figure stopped in front of the open cockpit, and cast a shadow over Antanov. The bad dream became a nightmare.

Antanov looked up into the eyes of the man who had shot him down. The eyes of the man who had killed Yurri. He was a middle aged Afghan man, hair just starting to get wisps of grey in it. He looked at Antanov with pitiless eyes. He had a full beard black as night, and his clothes were made of fine silk that had intricate patterns woven into them. Then he spoke.

"You Russians think that you own the world." His Russian was fluent if a little accented, and he spoke calmly and without anger, just like he was stating well known facts to a group of peers.

"You come with your tanks, and your planes, and your bombs, taking all you see before you with no care of who or what it belongs to." "What it is." He gestured around him. He paused for a moment binging up his AK-47 level with Antanovs head. Antanov felt no fear. If Yurri was dead how could he still be alive?

"You think you bring us freedom with your communism?" He practically spat the word. Anger becoming more apparent in his words. "All you bring us is pain and suffering." You put mines in our fields so we can't harvest crops and starve." "You gun down our children in the streets from your helicopters." His voice was beginning to rise. "You've killed many of my men today you godless Russian bastard." "Sent them to Allah before their time." "They have died a martyrs death, and will have all their rewards in heaven." He paused, "but you." "You I will send straight to hell." He aimed down the sights, and Antanov closed his eyes and waited. He would follow Yurri shortly. It didn't feel right to abandon him. The gunshot was a crack that resounded through the streets.

Antanov felt extremely light, and opened his eyes again, eager for his first glimpse at the next life. He was still in the cockpit of his hind, but standing in the doorway was an angel. Pale blonde hair framed a beautiful face, containing two sapphire eyes. They glittered with intelligence, and seemed omnipotent. She spoke but Antanov Didn't hear her. The setting sun framed her in the doorway.

Then Antanov noticed something odd about his angel in the doorway. She had a Dragunov sniper rifle on her back. Angels don't have sniper rifles thought Antanov...do they? It gave a whole new meaning to the phrase having a guardian angel. No one would fuck with you if you had a pissed off angel covering you with a high powered rifle.

"Can you hear me?" The voice brought Antanov out of his musings, and focused on the owner of the Voice. She was a well built women, with a figure that the VDV fatigues couldn't hide, and her voice was full of confidence whether she realized it or not, and it commanded absolute respect.

Wait, are there women in the VDV thought Antanov. Maybe I really am dead. "Can you hear me?" The voice brought Antanov out of his thoughts again. Blood loss was making his mind wander. "Yes" Antanov croaked out, and noticing her rank added "kapitan."

"I am going to try and move you, are you ready?" Antanov nodded weakly and said "Yes kapitan."

As she leaned over she said "Thank you for coming to our aid despite the danger, you were very brave." "You saved a lot of lives today." Then in a lower tone added "I am sorry about your comrade."

"Yurri", said Antanov weakly. His name was "Yurri". She looked down at Yurri's body and said "he fought bravely, you both did." Antanov said nothing.

She leaned forward and grabbed the front of his flight suit. "What is your name?" she asked. "Antanov", he began "Antanov Yeghe-AAaahhhhhhh. As he had been telling the kapitan his name she had started pulling out of the wreck. His previously weak voice having found new strength in pain.

Antanovs previously numb leg exploded in pain, and other pains of lesser degrees wracked the rest of his body. He screamed in pain, and blacked out for a moment. When he came to the kapitan was starting to put him over her shoulders, to carry him. It hurt more than Antanov thought possible. Antanov saw two Mujaheddin come around the corner, AK's raised. No he though, not again, he didn't want anyone else to die trying to save him. Yurri had been enough. far too much.

Before Antanov had time to utter a warning, The female kapitan yanked his Makarov 9mm out of his chest holster, and shot each tribesman twice in the chest. Red blotches spreading over their chests as they were pitched back by the rounds. Antanov should have been relieved, or happy, or something, but found he had no more emotion left to use. He felt empty, hollow.

She put a round in each of their heads as she walked by carrying Antanov as if he his 180 pound frame weighed no more that a sack of potatoes. Putting an end to any thought of survival or treatment. Antanov watched as his broken hind, and dead friend slowly retreated into the distance. He had lost two of the things that he cared most about today.

More VDV ran by hunting out the Mujaheddin, running through the rubble filled streets, and skirting around the craters left by the last ride of the White Cossacks. The Mujaheddin wouldn't escape, the men in the blue berets would see to it. The kapitan passed Antanov to two VDV with medical armbands, and went to coordinate the clean up operation of the town. The dead littered the streets, and those who were still living of the Mujaheddin didn't do so for long, or melted away into the desert sands.

Antanov laid on a stretcher in the playground of the school. There were some rusted out play structures, and the building was riddled with bullet holes. With only depressing thing to look at on the ground, Antanov looked to the sky. He had always enjoyed looking at the sky, it was so peaceful to look up there, and so exhilarating to fly in it. He was giddy, and light headed from the pain killers, and he was swathed in bandages. They had cut off most of the bottom half of his flight suit to get at his injuries. His leg had been broken in five different places.

Antanov heard a distant rumble like thunder, and he saw black shapes in the distance. The gunfire had died away long ago, and now he could hear everything going on. He recognized the shape and sound immediately. Hinds. It looked like the whole 103rd was coming over the horizon. Antanov finally felt at ease. The crocodiles would protect him. The 103rd looked after its own. He drifted off into a deep sleep, clutching Yurri's dog tags that the kapitan had retrieved for him. He had heard her name from what her soldiers had called her.

Balalaika. Kapitan Balalaika.

A.N. Well that was pretty good for the first chapter in my story. I'm very pleased with the end result, and since this is my first attempt at writing a story, I would say it's pretty good. It's like 3:08 am but I just couldn't stop writing. If your wondering why Balalaika was catering to Antanov in the hind, it was because she was trying to reassure him, and make him feel good. He was hurt, and delirious so she was being gentle with him. I didn't Antanov to just show up Roanpoar out of the blue, so a gave him a back story, and reasons for why he does what he does. I still need to tie up a few loose ends in the next chapter, about what happens to him in the intervening 7 or eight years. It's only 1986 and Black Lagoon takes place at a minimum of 1993. For those wondering Antanov is NOT getting with Balalaika. I just don't see it happening. Also if I mess up with canon, or armaments used let me know. For the more bat shit crazy stuff like shooting missiles out of the air, or crazy aerial manoeuvres let it go by. It's Black Lagoon. If people can hit bullets with swords, Jidanbo(right name?) hit an early version of the hind with torpedoes while ramping a boat(Seriously it didn't even have the bubbled canopy) or one person taking down half of roanpoar with two pistols(Revy and Chang) Or killer maids, or killer maids catching throwing knives with their teeth, and fucking break it(Roberta on both accounts) then I should have a little leeway. Well I'll do my best not to make Antanov a Mary sue. Right now he is self absorbed, cocky, a little racist against Arabs, A showboat, and he thinks the Soviet Union is the best thing ever despite what they did in Afghanistan. I'll try to have his faults become more apparent, and not everyone will like him. I'm surprised Revy likes anyone. I had him and Yurri at the top of their classes, because only exceptional people could have done what they did. I'll try to have each update at least 10 pages long. I do my best at editing, and fix add or take out parts as I go along. Also if you could give me some Russian names to use (both male and female) I would really appreciate it, I'm almost out. Well review tell me how I did, because now it's almost 3:30 am and I have school tomorrow, heh aaahh Fu-

P.S. I had superhuman playing while I wrote the big town battle.


	2. Last flight of a Soviet bird

Chapter 2 The last flight of a soviet bird

Antanov was bored. He was beyond bored, he had been sitting in the soviet hospital for over a month, and his leg was still in a heavy duty cast. He had suffered a grand total of a leg broken in 5 places, a concussion, 6 broken or fractured ribs, a sprained wrist, and an assortment of cuts and bruises.

The 103rd had been saddened by the losses suffered in the little shit hole of a village, whose name translated roughly as place of peace. Yeah fucking right, thought Antanov, the village was anything but peaceful.

The squadron flag was lowered to half mast, and a vigil was held just like what had been done for Sergei, and his quiet gunner. Death was now an old friend to the 103rd. They just all prayed that he wouldn't come knocking on their door any time soon. He may have been an old friend, but he wasn't welcome.

Mikhail, also know as pappa Mikhail, and his gunner Zebrevich, had met their end in that village in one of the most violent ways possible. The morale loss had been palpable when it was confirmed that he was dead. Everyone trusted and confided in that man. He was the only man besides Yurri... Yurri. It still just didn't seem real. Antanov shook it off. Mikhail had been the only other man that Antanov had confided in about his fears about killing. About maybe enjoying it. He had told Antanov that he didn't know what to say. He had said that killing from a helicopter was much different that killing someone up close. He said that it was just either the adrenaline from the fight itself, or that maybe he was a psychopathic killer. The second part obviously made Antanov feel good about himself. The only way that he would know for sure, is if Antanov was ever forced to kill someone while looking them in the face. Close enough to see their fear, hate, anger, whatever. Although he had said if Antanov went to conduct a test to find out he would personally shoot him. Antanov swore he wouldn't.

He missed Mikhail, he was a man who never judged you and always heard you out. It was said more men went to him with their problems than the padre at confession. Antanov believed it too. What hadn't been told to everyone for obvious reasons, was that the intense heat had fused them with the hind in the crash, turning man and machine into one. It had been like something you would expect to see at the devils barbecue, and Antanov was glad that he hadn't had to see that. He could just remember them how they had been, and not the blackened husks they had been turned into. Antanov did not envy the poor bastard who had to make the identification on them. Antanov only knew, because he heard some of the orderlies talking about it, before a doctor told them to shut up.

As for Zebrevich's assortment of pets, and strays, they found new homes around the base, with people coming, and picking out the ones they wanted. Some of the more mangy which no one wanted, and a rottweiler that Zebrevich had brought from home, had to be put down. The mangy ones, because they looked sick, and probably were, and the rottweiler, because it refused to leave the mans bunk, and growled at anyone who approached.

Most of the squadron had been by after the doctors had declared Antanov fit for visitors, to see what had happened, and see how Antanov was doing. Antanov had simply said to the gossip seekers, and some actually concerned friends only a single sentence. "I got Yurri killed, it's my fault, now please leave me alone, I am very tired." With that he had turned away from them, and refused to speak to any of them, staying that way, until they all left the hospital.

The local commissar had taken over the PT classes, after Mikhail's untimely death. Apparently he ran the courses like a gulag death march. Determined to drain every last drop of sweat out of their bodies, and get the "lazy" pilots in prime shape to better serve the motherland. No one liked him. He kept 'losing' his hat, and finding it in a variety of exotic places, like the latrines. They assumed he got the message.

The hospital was right on base too, so Antanov could be reminded every day that he was laid up in a hospital bed, and had gotten his flight status revoked, after the doctor had said that he would always walk with a pronounced limp at best once his cast was off, and his left leg would always be weaker than his right. The dumb fuck, though Antanov bitterly, all you needed your legs for was to push the rudder pedals which controlled the yaw of the aircraft, not climb a goddamned cliff. It was retardedly easy to use the pedals. Antanov could do it even with his cast still on. Flying a helicopter was all in the hands and arms anyways, it was in his blood.

They had sent a psychiatrist to see him, and do an evaluation of his mental state, after the loss of his gunner and best friend. He had left quickly in a huff using his briefcase as a shield, as Antanov had thrown everything in sight at the man, including charts, pillows, bandages, maybe a scalpel somewhere in there and, ahem... a full potty dish as the patients called it. He ran out covered in refuse, and a scalpel sticking upright in his briefcase.

The nurses had put some pretty powerful sedatives into him to make him calm down. The psychiatrist had had asked him how he had 'FELT' about Yurri's death. So Antanov had shown him how he 'felt' at that very moment. Apparently when Antanov had been under the influence of the drugs he had complained that a purple monkey had been staring at him. Then screamed when the monkey liquified and started to ooze over top of him. They had put different, more powerful sedatives to put him under after that. Antanov later learned that he had experienced something called a 'bad trip.'

A couple of his better friends Vladimir and Egor had stopped by to see how he was doing. It was awkward to say the least. No one had known what to say. Antanov chose a particularly interesting spot on the wall to stare at, while Vladmir stared between his boots, and Egor had decided that the hospital was the most interesting place he had ever been in, looking at everyone, and everything. They had made small talk, about how the squadron was doing, who was with who, who had scored the most kills in the last mission, and how the new recruits were shaping up to be.

"So what did the doctors say about your leg?" asked Vladmir trying to take a more active role in the conversation.

"Great", said Antanov, he said I'll be learning to tango by the end of the week".

"Okay, said Vladmir I get it but how ba-"

"Also said I have a decent shot at the Olympic hundred meter dash."

"Goddamn it Antanov, said Egor. What has got you so pissy?"

Antanov didn't answer, merely pointed to his dress uniform hanging on a rack beside the bed, and a low table with his medals in their cases. They studied the uniform, not understanding at first, and then looked away as realization dawned. Over the left breast pocket, where Antanov's wings would have been proudly worn, there was just a faint outline with a single piece of steel thread sticking out, and on the table a crinkled medical statement saying that Antanov should be discharged, or regulated to a non-combat role.

"Shit man that sucks", said Egor. He was never one for deep conversation or elegant speech, but he spoke what was on his mind, and didn't bullshit around. Antanov liked him for that, he was honest.

"Sorry about this", said Vladmir.

"What for, said Antanov you didn't shoot me down."

"You know what I mean Antanov, retorted Vladmir angrily. Ever since Yurri-"

"Leave", Said Antanov

"What?" said Vladmir.

"I said get out, leave, your not welcome."

Vladmir's face got red, and Antanov thought that they were going to have a screaming match, right there in the hospital. Vladmir was legendary in the squadron for his temper, especially after he got some vodka in him, though he was usually sorry for it afterwards. Usually.

Instead he just glared at Antanov with furious brown eyes, and said in a tight voice, "come on Egor it looks like we've outstayed our welcome." Antanov glared daggers at Vladmir as he stormed out. Egor reluctantly followed and paused at the door, and turned back to Antanov whom anger still burned in his eyes.

"We all miss him Antanov, you aren't alone in this so stop acting like it's only you that this affects. Antanov was about to reply, when Igor continued.

No one blames you for what happened. With that Egor turned on his heel, and left the room, but called over his shoulder, and stop being so goddamned pissy." Antanov felt the anger drain from him, and said quietly to himself, "I blame myself."

Antanov never got another chance to talk to Egor. He was shot down along with Vladmir doing a medical evac three days later. It wasn't until years later that Antanov learned the profound effect his words had achieved, and had helped bring him out of his depression. Antanov wished there were more Egor's in this world. Too many people never told you the truth or gave you a straight answer. The One who brought him full out of his depression was a distinguished member of the VDV. Kapitan Balalaika.

Antanov was dozing fitfully, when a nurse woke him up. "Lieutenant, there is someone here to see you." "I'm tired today, tell them that I'm sleeping." "But", the nurse began.

"Too busy to see the person who saved your life?" "Or are you just ungrateful?"

Antanov looked up in surprise, and saw the only female VDV captain, or front line soldier he had ever seen for that matter standing in the doorway. The very same one who had saved his life.

He tried to snap off a salute, but ended up instead nearly knocking over an IV stand that the nurse who had been standing beside the bed had to scramble to catch. Balalaika chuckled, while the nurse just glared.

"Am I allowed in or are you still tired?" Asked Balalaika. "N-no kapitan, I mean yes of course you can come in."

"My my," said Balalaika, "I've flustered the poor boy." Antanov blushed deeply at the words. Balalaika just laughed again.

"I'll leave you to your guest now," said the nurse. As she left she gave Antanov a glare that said if you break ANYTHING while I'm gone you won't WANT to live to see tomorrow. Antanov made a mental note to watch his elbows, and arms.

Balalaika was in the full dress uniform of the VDV complete with powder blue beret, and with more medals than Antanov had thought possible for anyone less than a Field Marshall. He recognized a couple from first glance, including 2 Orders of Lenin, A medal for distinction of military service 1st class, four Medal for courage awards, another 2 of the Medal for military Merit, and many others that he didn't recognize, and some that were very, very hard to get.

Apparently he had been staring too long as Balalaika had said, "admiring my chest?"

"Yes. No. I mean it's nice, but not in that way. Well it is but, ummm ahhh,." Balalaika stopped him from digging hole before he hit China by saying, "it's all right, it's a lot of metal I know. Damn things heavy too." As she pulled up on her tunic to a more comfortable position Antanov had to look away red faced.

What the hell is with me? He thought. I'm acting like some horny teenager too nervous to make a move on a girl he likes. Antanov remembered that when he first saw her he thought she was an angel come to carry him off to the afterlife. She had been beautiful, then, and she was beautiful now. More so without the blood, dirt, and grime on her. Her uniform was freshly pressed and starched, and her hair was neatly combed, and her eyes were brighter as she was well rested, and there were no longer bags under her eyes.

"So how have you been Antanov? "well I hope."

Antanov was tempted to lie, but to lie to Balalaika would have seemed wrong, and something just in her very presence demanded nothing but the truth, and a maximum of respect. "Not so well I'm afraid, said Antanov, with Yurri... gone it's been hard." Antanov finished, the vigour he had previously displayed gone, and the boyish shyness had disappeared.

Balalaika's eyes wandered over to the low table, and spied the medals sitting in the boxes. She walked over, and reached for them. She stopped short, and said, "may I?"

"Go ahead" said Antanov, their not as impressive as yours though. Balalaika merely smirked as she opened them up. There were eight in total. Antanov and Yurri had been the most decorated crew in the whole 103rd. They had been infamous in a good way, and had more medals combined then at least and 4 other crews in the squadron combined. Well except for Pavel. That man wore any medal he could get his hands on. Hell he even wore the blood donors medal.

Balalaika started taking them out one by one, and inspecting them.

"Hmmm". "Four honoured military pilot medals of the Soviet Union." "Must have had to do some fancy flying to get those huh?" Antanov stammered out a reply of something or other, and then Balalaika continued. "An Order of glory 1st class." She smiled. Antanov thought it was the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. "My sergeant Boris would kill for something like this." She put it back in its box. Antanov was feeling pride swell in him that the VDV kapitan was praising him for his accomplishments. "Two medals for Courage?" She held up the two identical medals. One was slightly tarnished, because Antanov had dropped in a puddle of oil while showing it off. He had to send away for a new ribbon for it, and it contrasted sharply with the slightly off colour metal. "I'm starting to get impressed." Antanov was smiling by now, not overly so, but a smile none the less.

"Let's see the last one now shall we?" She opened the last box, and held it up. "A medal for distinction in military service second class." She paused with a thoughtful expression on her face. "Well I think I can one up you on this." She reached into her tunic pocket, and pulled out two more medal boxes. 1st lieutenant Antanov Yeghevich it is with great pleasure that I award you with The medal for distinction of Military service 1st class." Antanov took the case dumbstruck, as Balalaika continued, and The Order of Lenin. Antanov held his new medals. Yurri deserved them instead.

Seeing the look on Antanov's face yet again, Balalaika took out a very richly crafted box, inlaid with gold filigree. Antanov looked at it in puzzlement. Balalaika opened it up and Showed Antanov the medal inside. It was the Hero of the Soviet Union Medal. Balalaika held it up and showed him the back of it. Inscribed on the was was the rank, initial, and name, 3rd LT. Y. Myaskovskiy. Yurri, Myaskoviskiy his gunner. His best friend,the large man with a champion boxer for an uncle, and who would tease him relentlessly, but would always pull his ass out of the fire when he got in trouble. You're friend died a hero, and the motherland has recognized him for his ultimate sacrifice. Medals will never replace a comrade, but they show that what was done, and it will not be forgotten." Balalaika finished solemnly.

Antanov was quiet for a long time, then finally spoke. "Thank you, said Antanov, truly thank you."

"Don't thank me, you earned this. We would have gotten these to you sooner, but we had some problems."

"What kind of problems?" asked Antanov.

Balalaika got a gleam in her eye that made Antanov feel uneasy. "The kind of problem named Sasha."

"The new guy? What of him?" Antanov had a feeling that it wasn't going to be good.

"Lets just say his version of events didn't match what actually happened."

Antanov felt anger build in him. "What. Did. He. Say?"

"It doesn't matter now, said Balalaika, I have taken care of it." All things considered Antanov felt a twinge of sympathy for Sasha. He would not want Balalaika even displeased with him, much less angry.

Seeing an unused chessboard nearby she said, "do you play chess?" "Yeah, but no one ever beats me."said Antanov dismissively. "Well do you want to play?" Balalaika pressed.

"Not really", said Antanov.

"What if we make things interesting." Balalaika said coyly.

"Interesting?"

"If I win I get 10 Ruble's"

" And if I win?" Antanov was always interested when a prize was considered.

Balalaika leaned over Antanov, and said, "a kiss."

"Wh-what?" asked Antanov suddenly finding it hard to breathe.

"Well if your not interested I suppose I can just leave." As Balalaika stood to leave, Antanov practically slammed the Ruble note down on the table. "Let's play." Balalaika smiled, grabbed the chessboard, and sat down.

"Checkmate." Antanov stared down at the board. There was no move he could make. How did he just lose? Balalaika just sat there looking immensely pleased with herself, and was not forthcoming with any answers. It had taken 14 turns.

"I believe," began Balalaika, "that this is mine." She reached forward, and cleanly pocketed the note off of the table.

Antanov put another down on the board. "Again."

"I thought you said that you didn't want to play."

"Well I changed my mind, let's go again," said Antanov hotly.

"I don't want to take all your money." Said Balalaika eyeing Antanov's filled wallet.

"You won't," said Antanov and I intend to win back what I lost."

"Well aren't we full of fire now?" Said Balalaika. Antanov was quickly resetting the pieces with almost fanatical devotion. "Very well," said Balalaika at length, "let's play."

After Antanov had lost ALL of his money to Balalaika, they had to call it quits. She said that she wouldn't except possession's, or his first born child as payment. She also said that she couldn't accept a hind as payment since, 'technically' Antanov did not own said multi-millon ruble gunship.

"Well I should be going now," said Balalaika now rising from her chair. "I Promised the men that I'd take them for a few rounds of vodka shots." "This was fun though, I might just come back and play again tomorrow."

"But, I don't have any more money," said Antanov meekly. Balalaika waved her hand dismissively, "the wager was just to get you to play."

"Oh, so I don't have to bet money next time?" asked Antanov hopeful.

"No. We'll just play for fun from now on. She grinned, can't take everything you make."

As she was leaving Antanov had to ask a question that had been bugging him. "How can you afford to pay for a round of drinks for over 100 men?" "It's simple, said Balalaika. I can't." Antanov was puzzled until she pulled out the wad of cash she had won from him. "Thanks for the help." With that she left the hospital room.

"Damn. I got played." But thought Antanov I get to see her again tomorrow. Feeling self satisfied he leaned back on his bed putting his arms behind his head. Unfortunately an errant elbow knocked the glass ashtray Balalaika had used for her cigars on the floor, and the broken glass, and ash spread across the floor. Antanov got a distinct feeling that something bad was about to happen. Antanov heard a clacking of heels in the hallway, and then the nurse from earlier was standing in the doorway. She first looked at the mess on the floor, and then at Antanov. "Uh oh." was all Antanov said.

As promised Balalaika returned the next day for their game of chess, and Antanov continued to lose every single game. He couldn't understand what he was doing wrong. He would always take more pieces. He would always clear a path to her king, and then all he had to do was strike. Then... he would lose. He would be in checkmate, with no other possible moves to make, he had to concede defeat. Whenever he asked how he lost, Balalaika would just say, "you were simply outplayed." She continued to come back, and win every single game, no matter what Antanov did.

As soon as Antanov was able to move around on his own, albeit with the help of crutches, he would challenge anyone, and everyone to a game of chess that he could find. It got to the point where the hospital staff would try to hide the board, in hopes that Antanov wouldn't find it and leave them alone. They underestimated the determination of a man with nothing to do all day, and a wounded ego. He always found it.

Antanov was able to beat everyone consistently with the exception, of a man in a full body cast, and bandages who called out where he wanted his pieces moved, the nurse who had 'explained' to Antanov why we are careful in a hospital, and an elderly doctor, who would play in his spare time.

Antanov was sure he lost to the nurse, for the simple reason that he was terrified of her wrath. Antanov found out that she liked stuffed animals, and had bought her several to make peace with her. After he accidentally knocked over a glass of water, and breaking it, she hadn't even gotten upset. Antanov had thought he was in the clear. The morning after, he woke with the severed head of one of the bears he had bought her in his lap. Right on top of his crotch. Antanov avoided anything breakable like it was instant death. He couldn't have been farther off. It would be very slow, though she wasn't bad to look at when he wasn't fearful she was going to horribly murder him, and she had a nice name too. Catherine. She filled out her nurses uniform in all the right places.

The doctor won, because he played classical music which distracted Antanov, and he always offered him vodka when they played. Antanov thought that he drank more than was healthy, and encouraged Antanov to do the same. Antanov usually ended their games hammered, and left declaring that his bed was a hind gunship. Until the nurse showed up, and ever so 'sweetly' asked him to stop making a ruckus, before someone got 'hurt'. Antanov quickly sobered up, and apologized, both with words, and continually buying her more stuffed animals. Antanov feared the day that he wouldn't be able to buy more stuffed animals.

The body cast man won, because apparently he had been both a voice actor, and ventriloquist before the war, and mind fucked Antanov whenever they played. At first he thought he was becoming schizophrenic, when he heard voices of savvy business men, small children, and voluptuous women telling him to move the pieces around from all corners of the room, and in the hallway. That and eat his soul, but I digress. It didn't help that he would also do it in his regular voice too, and deny hearing any other voices. Obviously barring the soul eating in his normal voice. When Antanov had found out, he had been furious, but also found it amusing in some ways. At least he wasn't crazy.

Yet no matter how much Antanov practised he just couldn't beat Balalaika. He found out that Balalaika wasn't her name one day as she was leaving, after one of their daily chess games. They had stopped playing in the hospital room, and had moved to the lounge as it afforded a better view, and was far more comfortable. Also it didn't face the airport.

"And I believe that this is checkmate once again Mr. Yeghevich. Balalaika was wearing simple fatigues, and leaned back in her chair arms behind her head in triumph. It took all of Antanov's willpower not to stare at her more noticeable 'assets' as she did so. Really Antanov you said no one ever beat you, and yet I continue to win again, and again." Now she was just taunting him.

"You must be cheating, said Antanov. No way you could win every single time." Antanov sat back annoyed at having been beaten yet again. How does she do it? He pondered. She had to have a trick, extra pieces. Something.

"I can assure you I am not cheating Antanov, but I can tell you one thing," said Balalaika leaning forward. "What's that?" Antanov asked. Balalaika just paused sitting there, sitting still as a statue. She did so for so long, that Antanov was considering asking her if she was alright, then she spoke. "You are a sore loser." "I am not a sore loser!" Antanov stood up in outrage, but unfortunately he put weight on his bad leg. With a whine of pain he fell back heavily into his chair. "You didn't just prove my point at all Antanov. Not in the least." Antanov just grunted in annoyance.

"Just tell me how you keep winning, said Antanov in frustration. What is your secret?"

"It wouldn't be a secret if I told you now would it Antanov, and besides, tapping her watch she said, I have to go." In one smooth movement she stood up, and began walking to the door.

"Goodbye Kapitan Balalaika", Antanov called after her. Balalaika stopped dead in her tracks.

"What did you call me?" Balalaika didn't turn around when she asked the question.

Oh shit, thought Antanov, maybe I offended her. Maybe it's a word that some men in her company use to make fun of her, or insult her.

"I um, Antanov swallowed nervously. I heard some of your men call you Balalaika when they were treating me, and I though that was your name." Antanov got his crutches ready to make a run for it if Balalaika, or whatever her name was got angry at him. He saw her shoulders, and body start to shake. He was so going to die now. Instead she burst out laughing, and turned to face him.

"Do you even know what Balalaika means? She asked wiping tears from her eyes. It's slang for the Dragunov sniper rifle that I always use, so the men just started calling me it. Antanov now understood why the sergeant in charge of visitors had looked at him like he was retarded when he had asked where Kapitan Balalaika was when she hadn't shown up for a week. It turned out later that she had been in the field. Antanov, did you never once see my name tag?" Stencilled clear as day above her right breast was the name Pavlovena.

"No, I never did," replied Antanov. "So your telling me that in the two weeks that I've been coming everyday to play with you, you never once saw my name?" "Yes." replied Antanov trying to salvage as much dignity as possible. "Unbelievable muttered Balalaika. Only my men call me my Balalaika, and only my men can call me Balalaika." "Oh I'm sorry Kapitan Pavlovena, I won't make that mistake again." Antanov swore not to mess that up. "Balalaika." "Ma'am", asked Antanov unsure. "You can call me Balalaika," repeated the newly named Kapitan Pavlovena. "But I'm not from your unit, or under your command," protested Antanov. Balalaika fixed him with a gaze, that Antanov couldn't look away from. "You bled on the same ground we did, and you lost comrades, just like we did. In my eyes you have earned the right to call me Balalaika." With that she turned on her heel, and left. Even if Antanov could have replied, he wouldn't know what to say.

Antanov just stared at the neatly wrapped box. Balalaika had left for another mission a few days ago, and hadn't come back yet. She had given the box to him, saying that she had been waiting for the right time to give it to him. It was from Yurri. It had been for his birthday, which had been a few days ago, and a surprising number of people had shown up, since Antanov had stopped being so 'pissy,' as Egor had put it. Antanov wished Egor and Vladmir could have been there. Vladmir was a funny drunk as long as you didn't make him angry, and Egor was fun to have around, even if he could be a prick at times. Antanov was beginning to feel old. Too many new faces, too many names he didn't know. With a dull realization he realized that he didn't care that he didn't know their names. He was shipping back to Russia within the week, and now could walk around with only the aid of a cane, although walking tired out his disused leg considerably, and it was still a bit stiff.

Antanov's only regret was that he wouldn't be able to spend more time with Balalaika. He had developed a crush on her over the weeks, and had been going to tell her how he felt, especially when she had told him that she had volunteered to deliver the medals in person, to have a chance to visit him. He had thought that she had felt the same way. Then she had revealed that she did this kind of thing with all of her men who got hurt, and that was why she could never stay long. He had just been a name on the list. Balalaika had said that a commander's job didn't end off the field, that they had to care for their soldiers, since that whether most commanders realized it or not, their men would fight to the death for them at a single order. No questions. No regrets. She said it was shameful for the commander to do any less for their soldiers. Every single man to a man under Balalaika would give his life to save her, and she would do the same for any one of her soldiers. Despite everything that had happened Antanov felt the same way that they did. He would die for her on a word.

Antanov wondered what was in the little blue box with a white Ribbon on it. Yurri always got him good gifts, whether they were possessions, or like the one time he had taken him to and paid for a night at one of the most expensive Bordello's in the area. Antanov smiled wryly. That had been a good night. Another time he had got Antanov a Swiss pocket watch that he had bought on the black market. Antanov hardly ever wore it, and never in public for fear of being caught with contraband, and getting his flight status revoked, even temporarily. The point seemed moot now in reflection. Antanov had attempted to open it several times, and had stopped each time. Unable, or unwilling to open it.

In the intervening time of his recuperation, he had become more friendly with the nurse Catherine. She had confided in him that she had just done most of the things, to bug him, and she thought it was funny when she would walk into the room, and Antanov would cower behind his sheets, and call her ma'am despite the fact that he out ranked her by a few good levels. Apparently she didn't have a lot of friends, and people seemed edgy around her, so she just played it up. Since she had lacked friends, she had collected the stuffed animals, and only cut up the one bear, because she had spilled coffee on it's body, and ruined it. Not wanting to waste it, she had waited for the perfect oppurtunity to use it. He had been to her room a few times, and it was wall to wall with stuffies. Apparently some of the standards sergeants had wanted her to clean it up, but then she had just put on her act, and the request mysteriously vanished.

It still made Antanov wonder about her mental state if she found him cowering funny, but the extracurricular activities they participated in made it seem less important. They both knew it wouldn't be permanent, but it didn't seem to matter. With so much death you learned to live in the moment, and not give a damn about tomorrow. Antanov still felt uneasy doing it in her room though, and having sooo many stuffed animals watching him.

Most of the time, Antanov would just wander around the hospital, now that he just needed a cane to get around. Anywhere he went though, was preceded by the tap of his simple pine cane, as he walked around.

Antanov was wandering again today, and he knew that he should open the gift, tap, tap, tap. It was from Yurri, and now it was only gathering dust in his room. Tap, Tap, Tap. He had to stop putting it off, or else it was going to drive him insane, TAP, TAP, TAP. Antanov stopped in the hallway so suddenly, that a passing orderly almost ran into him. The orderly was going to protest, but after seeing the look on Antanov's face he quickly went on his way. Antanov turned sharply on his heel, and headed back to his room. He was going to open the box, and end the stupid indecision.

Even with the fire of his conviction, he still hesitated, with the simple blue box. Instead of tearing it open, like he resolved he would, he began to tenderly open it. Untying the ribbon, and setting it to the side. He gently opened pried open the top, and took out a tissue paper wrapped object. He tore off the paper, and looked at his gift.

It was a porcelain miniature, of a Cossack horse, and rider. It was on a circular base, with the horse and rider rearing up, and the rider brandishing his sabre. It was finely detailed, and you could practically hear the battle cry, coming out of his porcelain lips. The horse was a dark chestnut mare, and the Cossack rider was complete with full uniform, and hat. The base was outlined in gold paint, and the rest was black. At the bottom of the box was a note. Antanov read it.

"Well Antanov another year has come and gone, and I guess your still alive, so I decided to get you something different this year. If I'm not there drinking with you, I guess I'm dead. Funny thing it must be reading a note from a dead man. I ordered this in advance, because I had a premonition of sorts about this. I had a dream about a Cossack rider with a white horse charging across a smoky battlefield, and he was alone. He charged right into the other line, and fought until he died. I've had this dream a few times now, and I might be a superstitious farm boy from the Ukraine, but I think it meant either my death, yours, or both. If I'm still there with you give me a good smack, if not. Don't give up, Cossacks never surrender, and they never give in. See you in the next life my friend. P.S. If I'm not dead, don't you DARE forget my birthday again."

The realization hit Antanov like a hammer blow. Yurri was dead. He was dead, and there was nothing that he could do to change it. He had been in either denial or had put it completely out of his mind entirely, refusing to think about it.

Antanov had not wept for any of his fallen comrades, he had sworn he wouldn't. From the first to the last, he had stood strong. For them, and for the Motherland he had refused to grieve for them. Now though, he wept long and hard. For Sergei, and his quiet gunner from the Urals. Mikhail, father to them all. Zebrevich the large man with an equally large heart for animals. For Egor, the blunt, but honest man. Vladmir, and his legendary temper, and good spirit, for Yurri. His best friend and closest confidant, and finally for all those others who had fallen, too numerous to name, and yet he knew every one of them.

After Antanov had finished, he asked himself a question that he never had before. Was all of the death and sacrifice worth it? He had always believed that they were doing the right thing, and still did, but was it worth the cost?

Antanov Decided that he needed some fresh air, so grabbing his cane, and porcelain figurine, he strode out into the bright Afghan day. Antanov wore simple soviet desert fatigues, and he put on his reflective American Aviators to combat the bright light, and hide his red eyes. Who cared if someone caught him with them, what else could they do to him? He walked for a long time, and whether through fate or habit, his feet carried him to the helicopter staging area.

Antanov heard the deep thumping of rotors, and looked up. A flight of 6 MI-17 helicopters, escorted by two hinds came in for a landing. They kicked up loose sand, and rocks as they landed. Antanov had to cover his mouth with his cane arm so he wouldn't breathe it in.

Antanov Saw VDV start unloading from the helicopters. They smelled, were dirty, covered in both blood, and sweat. They walked like defeated men, dragging their feet, and barely holding onto their Kalashnikov's. That was strange to Antanov, the VDV would be tired surely, but they always kept tight discipline, and held their head's high. They were the shock troops of the Soviet spearhead, and had extremely high esprit de corps. Something horrible had to have happened to make this happen to them.

Antanov noticed that their kapitan wasn't with them, and he felt his pulse quicken. Maybe it's a different company, Antanov tried to reassure himself. There was a whole division of VDV on base, and it could be any company, any kapitan. Antanov felt his stomach drop, when he saw Balalaika's top sergeant Boris with the same defeated look as the rest of them. He had a fresh scar across his face that was still healing and pink. Antanov's cane dropped from nerveless fingers, hitting the tarmac with a wooden clatter. His hold on the porcelain figurine however never wavered. Balalaika he later learned had been captured by the Mujaheddin.

Later that night Antanov approached the VDV barracks, in his soviet fatigues, and his service Makarov in a holster. He had never gotten his old one back, after Balalaika had used it to save him.

He hesitated at the door, the VDV were notorious for shunning, and booting out soviet serviceman who were not invited in specifically. Maybe he could just sneak in, and speak to Boris, and they wouldn't notice. With an effort of will Antanov pushed the door open, and strode in.

He couldn't have been more wrong. Everyone noticed him when he walked in. This was a night of grieving for them, and they had all been sitting sullenly in their bunks or around the room, except for a cluster of men around Boris at the far end of the barracks. They had been speaking in hushed tones, before Antanov had walked in.

They were all staring at him, and the stare said, leave or we'll hurt you BAD. Taking a deep breath, Antanov began walking to the far end of the barracks, his cane making the only sound as it struck the wood floor, on his way across the room. His left leg was sore from walking so much today, but he ignored it. Some of the men had left their bunks, and had moved to cover the door behind him. If I don't do this right, I'm going straight back to the hospital, and I doubt I'll be able to leave for a long time, thought Antanov.

Antanov began to sweat, the VDV had their Kalashnikov's in the barracks, and were fingering them lightly. Forget the hospital, thought Antanov if I fuck this up I'm going straight to the morgue. He stopped in front of the table with Boris, and his cluster of men. He was so nervous, he thought he might throw up. He gripped his cane with sure hands, they were steady. No matter how nervous Antanov got he never shook, but you could see it in his eyes. Yurri had once told him, that his mother had said that the eyes were the gateway to the soul, and you could tell a lot about a person from their eyes.

Antanov stopped a few feet short of Boris. He felt like he couldn't speak. He had met Boris before, and had talked briefly with him on several occasions, but always when Balalaika had been present. He imagined that Boris had also met him after he got shot down, but Antanov couldn't be sure. He had been high, and later morphine that day. Antanov was spared having to speak first, because Boris did.

"What the hell are you doing here, this isn't your barracks, and you had damn well have a good excuse for coming in here." I c-came to try and h-help Balalaika." Antanov was stuttering, and he was spinning on the inside. He was fearful, and he knew if he screwed up he was dead. Boris was clearly angry, and while he and Antanov were of comparative heights even if Boris was a bit taller, Boris was a mountain of muscle compared to Antanov, and a trained killer. Antanov had been told that he had a pilots build one time over drinks in a bar, and he only had the hand to hand skills he had learned in basic. He was a decent shot with his pistol, but he would be beyond dead if he ever was forced to draw it. Everyone had thought Yurri was front line infantry, with his build and fighting prowess.

"What could you possibly do to help us? Would you fight for her, would you die for her? Everyone in this room would die for her, can you claim the same?" "Without hesitation, Antanov replied. He felt fierce determination in him as he said it. Balalaika had shown more patience for him than anyone other than Mikhail or Yurri would have shown. She had saved his life twice. Once of the battlefield, and again from going down a dark road of no return. You need a pilot you can trust, and I owe Balalaika my life. I'm not leaving until you agree to let me help, or I'm carried out of this room in a body bag." He met Boris's eyes, his no longer holding fear, and Boris's were unreadable.

They had a small stare down, before, Boris gestured to an empty chair. "Sit we have much to discuss."

Antanov was sitting strapped into an Mi-17, and he was sure they were going to get caught. He was wearing the previous owner of the helicopter's flight suit. The VDV had jumped them after they had refused to go along with the plan, and were tied up, and hidden in their barrack's. They were only taking Three helicopters. Two Mi-17's, and One hind. Antanov had managed to convince Dima, and his pothead of a gunner Oleg to come along. Oleg was a very proficient gunner, but had a taste for the locally grown cannabis. He only did it on leave though. Antanov figured it was how he coped. Dima was a short pudgy man, with a taste for fine foods, and he was offset by his tall and skinny gunner. Dima abhorred drugs of any kind, and was constantly trying to get Oleg to quit. It had been a point of amusement among the squadron, and they fit so comically well together, and yet were the best of friends. Just like the modest and calm Yurri had offset Antanov's Hotheaded, and egotistical ways. Antanov felt a pang of loss, but shook it off. He had a mission today.

Antanov had chosen Dima, and Oleg because they had been good friends to him and Yurri, and had been in Afghanistan since 1980 just like he had. They were one of the last few of his original 'family' who he trusted without reservation. Antanov had thought it might be hard to get them to agree. He was asking them to risk their careers, and face a court martial, and possibly a firing squad. They had agreed to come along, without any questions asked. It had moved him.

Antanov only knew the pilots of the other Mi-17 by name, he knew nothing about them. They were Danil, and Kostya. They seemed competent being transport pilots, and they were fairly average to look at, you wouldn't be able to pick them out of a crowd, unless you knew where to look.

Antanov didn't have a co-pilot on this mission, and he felt glad just to be able to fly again. They were using a ruse, that they were going on a reconnaissance in force mission, and they would be flying closer to the Pakistani border. Balalaika was being held in Pakistan after a botched secret mission, and they would cross the border, and bring her back. Boris had, had to hand pick members of the company to go an rescue Balalaika. They simply couldn't take everyone. The ones who stayed behind, would have to keep the alarm from being raised for as long as possible.

Antanov got a line of communication open with the tower to ask permission to take off on their bogus mission. "Tower this is Delta two over." "Delta two this is tower, go ahead over." "Requesting permission to take off on bearing one, one, eight, from Apron Echo over." "Delta two this is tower, Acknowledged. Take off on Bearing one, one, eight from Apron Echo, permission granted, you may proceed." "Acknowledged, taking off on heading one, one, eight now," Antanov finished. So far so good. With that he fed more power to the collective, and smiled. He was flying again. This would be his final flight as a soviet bird.

They crossed the border, hugging the mountain ravines, and staying under the radar. Antanov didn't like the feel of the Mi-17 as much as the hind. While the hind was sharp to respond to commands, and felt like he was holding the leash of a snarling beast, the Mi-17 was more sluggish, and he felt like he was leading a calm milk cow through a pasture.

Antanov eyed the mountain ridges warily, looking for any sign of hostile forces, thumb hovering over the firing studs. Except he had no firing studs, and he had no weapons, no teeth. Antanov grunted in annoyance.

They continued moving carefully, but quickly over, and through the mountain ranges, with Oleg, and Dima on Over watch. Flying above them like a mother shepherding her young. Antanov looked at his map. "Fives mikes to target, he called over the radio. I want eyes up, and weapons hot." The last part was only for Dima and Oleg. They were the only ones with weapons. Well besides the two full platoons of pissed off VDV in back of the Mi-17's ready to rip out some Pakistani throats. They were armed to the teeth, and had a look of utmost determination to them. Boris issued a similar order to them, and a clicking and clacking of weapons being checked, and prepped was heard. They wanted blood.

Their small flight crested one final ridge, and they saw the compound below them. It had a few concrete buildings, but mostly just a city of tents, and a chain link fence surrounding it. Dima drove his hind into a dive, quickly accelerating past them. He started firing, and his rockets, and Oleg's guns quickly turned the compound into a raging hellfire, of explosions and screams. He was careful to avoid the two concrete buildings, as they didn't know which one Balalaika was in. Antanov forced his hind, no his Mi-17 into a harsh dive, trying to get to the ground as quickly as possible. The rush of acceleration wasn't as great, and the G's were less, than what he felt in his hind. He felt let down.

30 metres off the ground he flared the helicopter as hard as he could, and it caught itself just before it redecorated the ground. Danil and Kostya were still descending. "Alright follow me, for Balalaika!" Roared Boris. He was audible over the roaring of the rotors. If he was audible, the rest of them were deafening. "UUURRRRRAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!" They shouted their battle cry, and ran through the minor sandstorm created by the Mi-17, Kalashnikov's blazing. They spared no one.

As Antanov was taking back to the sky, he took some light fire from the ground. It peppered the Mi-17 giving it far too many peepholes, and some narrowly missed him. He really missed his hind now. Antanov climbed sharply, leaving the fight to those who could bite. Antanov circled at 4000 feet, and watched the battle unfold. The VDV were merciless. No one could stand in their way, and those who tried died. He felt nervous anticipation. What if Balalaika was already dead? What would happen to them when they got back? Would they be shot, and if so then all of this was moot. No thought Antanov. They were trying, and that was a fuck of a lot more than most people did. He owed Balalaika the effort and risk. They all did.

Then he got the call, and he was overjoyed. Balalaika was alive, and they needed extraction. He put his Mi-17 into a sharp dive, and Danil and Kotsya were following close behind. Antanov was peppered by small arms as he landed, but Dima an Oleg silenced them as their hind came snarling over. They were good friends. Then he saw her. She was half running, half being carried by Boris to the hind. The VDV put a tight circle of protection around them, Boris practically leaped through the open door with Balalaika, and took her to the back, and began swathing her in field dressings. The VDV quickly climbed back into the helicopters while Dima and Oleg gave them Cover. When everyone was aboard, they hightailed it back. They had to deploy flares, and drop below a ridge line to avoid some stingers fired at extreme range. Once they were clear Antanov risked a glance back at Balalaika. Her fatigues were stained with blood, and an entire side of her face was swathed in bandages.

In her eyes, oh in her eyes, all Antanov saw was complete, and utter hatred. They had done something to her. Something horrible.

AN: Well this chapter turned out pretty well. I didn't know if I liked the whole medal scene, but it's there so I guess I have to live with it. I really want to get to Roanupur, but I think that the back story is vital as it establishes who he is, and why Antanov goes to Roanupur. Also why he is loyal to who he is. There will be one more chapter before Roanupur, to show how Antanov deals with the collapse of the Soviet Union. Also how he manages to get a hind, and what he does in the few intervening years. I didn't like writing Antanov to be so down, and angsty, but I thought it was necessary, considering he had lost his best friend, and his ability to fly. (at least for a little while) I should say that I do not in any way own Black Lagoon before I forget, and keep reviewing guys I like to know how I'm doing.


	3. Broken Birds fly Free

**Chapter 3 Broken birds fly free**

Two things were waiting for Antanov, and the VDV when they arrived. The first was a fleet of field ambulances, prepared and ready to take all wounded members of the rescue team, and Balalaika to the nearby field hospital. The second was an entire company of military police, to take the 'rogue' VDV, and pilots into custody, complete with armoured vehicles, and fully armed military police, in defensive positions around the landing strip. Antanov saw a pair of tungusta, anti air platforms tracking their approach. Antanov had known that this was what awaited them, before they set out to rescue Balalaika. They all did. If they had any regrets, no one voiced them.

The setting sun framed the fast approaching helicopters, and Antanov knew that the repercussions that they would face could be dire. He had heard stories of units going rogue, and trying to disappear, or go back to Russia, before their tour was up. He had also heard that alpha group Spetsnaz were sent after them, and hunted them down. No one left before their time was up. For those who tried, the motherland sent it's pitbulls to retrieve its wayward soldiers. Then put a bullet in the back of their head.

Antanov was apprehensive about landing. He knew that he faced a dishonourable discharge, and more than likely hard time in a Siberian prison camp. He shuddered slightly. He had heard things about those camps, bad things. They had once asked the surly Zebrevich about them one night over drinks. A strange look had come over the large Siberian, and he had simply said, "you don't want to know, and don't ask again." Needless to say it had put an end to the nights good spirits, and any thoughts of breaking military rules. For about a day. The threat had seemed so far away then, now it seemed ominously close.

Balalaika however, might not survive without medical treatment, so with as much conviction as he could muster, Antanov got in contact with the tower, and received permission to land. Within the tight cordon of military police, and armoured fighting vehicles. Antanov felt the air push at him slightly as it forced its' way through the variety of holes in the bottom of helicopter. He knew that after this he would be lucky to see Russia again, much less a helicopter, so he tried to savour the feeling of flying as long as he could. It would have been better in a hind.

They wouldn't be taken right away of course. Their would be investigations, trials, and cross examinations. They would want to understand what had caused an entire company of distinguished VDV, and a pair of long serving highly decorated pilots to go rogue. Antanov felt sorry for bringing Dima and Oleg into this. He could give a shit about the other two though, what were their names again? One was Kasta, Katya, Kostya, something like that. The other Antanov had no goddamned clue about, and found he didn't care to find out.

The engine of the Mi-17 had been hiccoughing for a while now, and Antanov was glad to put it down. He didn't know its' limits as well as a hind, or what kind of damage it could take. All things considered it was a nice helicopter. Decent speed, good payload, nice range, but it just wasn't a hind. It just didn't have the feel to it. The air of barely restrained lethality, and predatorial instincts that a hind had. Even different hinds had personalities. Some were prissy, and seemed most happy when they gleamed after a good cleaning, and seemed sullen when dust and dirt collected on them, and downright angry when they had scorch marks, or bullet dings in the side. Others could give a shit how they looked, and seemed to perform best when they were killing, seeming to purr on the way back after a mission, if they had their fill of blood. Antanov, and Yurri's hind had been in the middle. It liked to look good, but was willing to get dirty in a fight. Antanov personally believed, that it had represented him, and Yurri in the way it acted. In comparison the Mi-17 was a fucking milk cow.

Antanov set the helicopter down as softly as he could, careful not to disturb the wounded or Balalaika overly much with the landing. With his considerable skill, and care, they barely felt the landing. The VDV in the back began to tenderly pick up the stretcher holding Balalaika, and take her off the helicopter. They were going to treat her first, and nobody voiced opposition with the decision. Their angel would receive the care she needed first. They could wait. Antanov looked back at her, as they carried her out. Her bandages were stained through a dark crusty colour, and a clear fluid was leaking around the edges of the bandages. She was breathing deep and heavy. Antanov wasn't sure how much morphine had been put into her, but he was sure it was a very large amount. The rest of her uniform was stained in various places, and torn in others. He saw what looked like bandages through some of the holes in her shirt. Antanov still remembered the look of absolute hatred that he had seen in her eyes. He wondered what they had done to her, and if she would still be the same person after it. The same Balalaika who had spent all that time playing chess with a crippled pilot, and always had an easy smile to give.

The VDV disembarked from the helicopters, and started to congregate towards Balalaika to see if she was alright. Dima, Oleg and the other pilots also had left their respective helicopters, and went over to Balalaika. This made the military police nervous, since Balalaika had to be carried through the cordon to reach the ambulances, and everyone was following Balalaika, straight to the line of military police. Everyone still had their weapons with them including RPG 7v anti-tank rocket launchers, PKM light machine guns, and their trusty AK-74s. With the small army approaching the cordon line, a showdown was inevitable. Antanov thought that the tarmac was going to run red with blood.

A pudgy man in an military police officers uniform, climbed on top of a BTR with a megaphone, and started issuing orders. "Attention VDV of 7th company 6th Battalion. You are to halt immediately, and surrender all weapons. You will receive medical treatment hot food, and rest after you are searched and detained. You will not be harmed." No one stopped walking, and they were getting very close to the military police line, so the pudgy man tried again a little more forcefully. "Attention VDV you will halt immediately, or you will be fired upon, this is your last warning." The pudgy man got what he wanted in a way. The VDV did stop moving forward, but they also brought up their weapons, and put themselves between the enemy guns, and Balalaika. She was not going to die on their watch, and if she did, it would be after they did themselves. They had failed her once, and never again would they while any of them drew breath. A line of AK-74's, and RPG's formed in front of Balalaika. Dima and Oleg both had the AK's from the hind, while Antanov and the other two pilots had their service Makarovs. Antanov aimed his Makarov at the pudgy man on top of the BTR. If he was going to die he was taking the fat man with him.

If the Military police opened fire, they would be vaporized in a hail of lead, and cannon shells. The VDV would take a lot with them though, they had their weapons trained on them, and the RPG teams would brew up more than one vehicle. With a rumble of engines, a group of heavy Military police trucks began approaching the cordon line from the rear. The fat man practically grinned to himself as he saw the heavy Ural trucks roll towards the cordon line. With the arrival of reinforcements, he decided that this was a very opportune time to speak. "You are both outnumbered, and outgunned. Give up your arms now, and you will not be harmed. I will not ask again." We sure a getting a lot of last chances, thought Antanov wryly.

The situation almost boiled over, when it turned out that the rest of Balalaika's company was in the trucks instead of the expected police reinforcements. VDV armed to the teeth rapidly departed the trucks, and took up firing positions behind the cordon line. They had heard the news that Balalaika was alive and well. They had come to welcome her home, but they had also brought their toys with them. Some of the turrets of the IFV's rotated to greet them, and many of the military police had the look of confusion, and indecision about them. The situation had rapidly changed, and they had been deprived of the cover of the armoured vehicles, and no matter which side they were on they would be exposed. The fat man, and other military police officers were shouting orders frantically now. "Weapons down! Put them down now!" Or some other variation of the phrase. The VDV were protesting that Balalaika needed treatment immediately, and would in fact not put their weapons down until she was. Antanov saw the faces harden of both the VDV, and military police. They were gripping their weapons more tightly now, and any second, the situation would erupt into a blood bath. No one was willing to give an inch, and both were willing to kill, to get their way. There was no way that this was going to end well. They needed a miracle. Someone must of been listening, because a miracle did happen. Balalaika got up.

With a groan Balalaika stood up, despite several protesting VDV, including Boris. She swayed unsteadily on her feet, and Boris appeared ready to catch her should she lose the contest of balance. She got control of herself, and began to limp forwards, to the front of the VDV. Boris and some VDV tried to follow her, but she gestured for them to stand fast. Every eye was on her, and if the military police so much as harmed a hair on her head the VDV, HER VDV, would kill everyone there to avenge her, and damn the consequences. The area had been ringing with numerous shouting voices, and demands, all competing to be heard. Now the area was completely silent as Balalaika turned to face them. She was in no mans land between her loyal VDV, and the military police. She didn't need a megaphone to be heard like the fat MP.

"Comrades." she began. "I know that you have risked much to rescue me, and I know you have put yourselves in great peril to do so. I also know that you are putting yourself in harms way again to do what you think is protecting me." she paused, and no one spoke a word. "This is not the way to do it however." There were some protests from within the VDV, but she silenced them with a look from her single showing sapphire eye. "We are all Soviet soldiers here." she gestured at both the VDV, and military police. We can not fight each other, not when so many of our comrades have died to the guns of the enemy." She looked at the VDV, and the pilots, and did not continue until they were all looking her in the eye. The military police simply watched on silently. "I understand why you have done what you have, and I am deeply touched by the loyalty, and care you have shown in rescuing me. If you are still loyal to me, and to the Motherland I would ask you to please lay down your arms. No more Soviet blood needs to be shed today. Too much has already been shed, too much has already been lost." Slowly the VDV on both sides lowered their weapons, disarmed them, and with a clatter of metal on asphalt set them down. Balalaika tried to smile, but it ended up a grimace. "Thank you comrades." With that she started walking back towards them, and on her fourth step, she faltered. On her fifth step, her eye became hazy, and she began falling towards the ground. She never made it though, because Boris dashed out with near superhuman speed, and caught her before she touched the ground.

He carried her bridal style gingerly back to the stretcher, and laid her down on it. She was out cold and sweating profusely. Only her iron will had enabled her to give her speech, and spare them a bloodbath. She continued to look after them, even on deaths very door.

The military police rounded up the VDV, and began loading them into the back of prison cars, and the very trucks that some had arrived upon. The ones who handled Balalaika looked like fresh recruits, and they were practically shaking in their boots. Every single member of the VDV were watching them. If they caused her discomfort, or worse pain, there would be retribution. One thing about the VDV. They always got even.

The cuffs were too tight, and Antanov was crammed into the back of a police truck with Dima, Oleg, and a handful of VDV. Antanov felt the need to apologize to Dima, and his gunner Oleg.

"Hey Dima." began Antanov hesitantly. "Yeah?" responded Dima. "I'm sorry for getting you guys involved in this. You and Oleg." "Antanov how long have we known each other?" "Pardon?" "I said how long have we known each other?" repeated Dima. Antanov though for a moment, then responded. "Since 79 when I got assigned to the 103rd with the rest of you sorry bastards." Dima chuckled lightly. "That is true, very true." getting a more serious look on his face he continued. "In that time Antanov how many times have we saved each others lives?" "I... I don't know." said Antanov. "Seven and two." interjected Oleg as he tried to grab something out of his pocket. "You know what that means Antanonv?" asked Dima. Without waiting for a reply he continued. "You and Yurri, were always looking out for us, and we tried to do the same for you." Antanov was silent. "We've fought, bled, and lost for six long years together. Have you looked around lately Antanov? There aren't that many familiar faces in the squadron anymore. It's not our family anymore, it's theirs. We are the old men Antanov, the outsiders. Us. Me, you, Oleg." He gestured at Oleg who seemed triumphant at getting whatever he wanted out of his pocket, and was working on getting something else out.

"There was a time when I could give a shit about you Antanov. You were a showboat, completely full of yourself, and self centred." "Hey." started Antanov angrily. "Let me finish." said Dima. "You were, and still are all of those things, and you know what? I would die for you, just like you would have for Yurri, or Mikhail, or Sergei. Whether you admit it or not, you would do the same for me too. We have forged bonds stronger than family, and with that said, I have no regrets. We are a family Antanov, and a family will always look after each other." Antanov did not know what to say. Dima had just bared his soul to him, and he had shown Antanov what he had been missing since he had been hurt, a sense of belonging. A sense of being valued. Ever since he had lost his wings, he had felt worthless, but now he felt like he was worth something. Shiny medals, and smart uniforms were one thing, but it was what they represented that mattered. Something bigger than himself. He was still valued in the Soviet Union. It welcomed everyone, and gave them a place to belong. He could still be a good soviet. Besides that though, Antanov knew he belonged with people like Dima. Friends who forged unbreakable bonds through the fires of war, were friends for life. He would always belong with people like them. It was a nice moment. One ruined with the flick of a lighter.

Oleg had managed to free a joint, and lighter, and the sour smell of skunk began to fill the confined space of the police truck. Dima turned on him in a rage. "OLEG YOU STONER MOTHFUCKER!" Dima screamed at him. "YOU ARE NOT FUCKING HOTBOXING US!" Dima paused for breath before continuing. "DO YOU COMPREHEND THE WORDS COMING OUT OF MY FUCKING MOUTH?" He finished panting hard, a look of righteous fury on his face. Oleg took another drag, and held it in before answering very calmly. "You need to chill out man, and try to hold the smoke in instead of breathing it in and out so fast. You'll get a better high out of it." Dima simply screamed in impotent rage.

Somehow the charges were dropped, and no one was executed. There had been no explanation, and barely a slap on the wrist, for what could be considered treason. Antanov had heard a rumour that Balalaika's uncle was a field Marshall, and had pulled considerable strings to get them off the hook. There had been no trial, no investigations, and no exiles. Antanov knew that someone had to, and was going to take the fall for what happened, but he was just glad that it wasn't him. Antanov was leaving on the very day he was supposed to originally, and on the plane he was supposed to. Balalaika's uncle must have been a man of very long reach.

Antanov had managed to convince the base commander, an ageing colonel in his late fifties, to enrol him in the flight mechanics institute college. The base commander had at first refused stating that Antanov deserved to be shot for what he had done, but had changed his tune, when Antanov had slid him a yellow envelope. It contained 55 000 rubles. Everything Antanov owned. Antanov was fearful,that he would be shot that time, for trying to bribe a superior officer. In the end, he had taken it off the table, and dismissively counted the contents. It had barely been enough to convince him to put his name into the application. He still had to be accepted on his own merits.

He had been told to leave, before the colonel had changed his mind. Antanov left quickly. He had been terrified, that he would have been arrested, and that the man would take it as a personal insult to his honour, and that he would have his commissar shoot him. Instead he had taken the bribe, like it was an everyday occurrence. Antanov learned a lesson that day. With enough money you can get whatever you want in life.

Antanov looked wistfully back at the base that had been his home for the last six years. He wished that Yurri could be there with him. They should have both been flying home together as heroes, with a chest full of medals. Not one in pine box, and another as a flightless bird. He still missed him so much it hurt. He turned back toward the plane, and stepped aboard the passenger version of the TU-95, and entered it, forever leaving Afghanistan. He had his cane in his left hand in one hand, and a porcelain miniature in the other. He hoped Balalaika would be alright. She had been in a medically induced coma the last he had seen of her. On the way back to Russia, he had a dream while he slept. It was of a Cossack rider emerging from a field of the dead, limping across a dark battlefield dragging his sabre on the ground behind him. He was bloody, dishevelled, and looked like he would collapse,with each shaky step. He had lost his mount. In a Cossack regiment horse and rider were equal, and treated as another human being. Often drinking from the same water source together. Antanov felt sorry for him. No one should lose a companion like that.

The steady beep of a heart monitor was the only sound in the hospital room, besides the steady, if shallow breathing of Balalaika. Boris was at her side every second he was able to. Often taking his meals in her room, and even trying to spend the night, when there was nothing extremely pressing he had to do. It was beginning to look like a floral shop in Balalaika's room, with all the get well cards and bouquets, but the bright flowers were wilting in the dry Afghan heat, and filling the room with the sickly sweet aroma of decaying flowers. Boris looked at the bandaged Balalaika. Her skin was clammy, and cold despite the ever prevalent heat of the Afghan desert. Her wounds were still weeping a clear fluid, and it would occasionally seep through the bandages. The bandages themselves were already stained through with it, and had to be changed twice daily. Clear fluid was good, dark was bad. It meant infection, and in Balalaika's weakened state possibly death. Balalaika had an astounding mind, and the looks to go with it. The only thing that had kept her admirers at bay had been her loyal company of VDV. She was their treasure, and they guarded her jealously. There would be no more admirers now though, not with what had been done to her.

Boris took a damp cloth, and wiped her forehead with it. As he watched the steady rise and fall of her chest he felt an intense feeling of shame. It had been his fault that this had happened. He should never have let her go off on her own. He was the reason that she would be disfigured for the rest of her life. She would be mocked and ridiculed for the rest of her life. Berated for having ugly scars, and called a freak, and not as the hero she deserved. She had taken the fall for them, for all of them. All of her medals, every single last one, had been stripped from her. She was dishonoured, and disowned. Her uncle had saved her, only to cut his ties with her immediately afterwards. Boris assumed he had helped, to keep his names out of the papers, in the trial that would have ensued. She would still receive some benefits of disability from the military, but it would be a paltry some, only enough to cover her pain medication. The kind that stopped her from screaming out in agony even now. The kind that was highly addictive. He had heard that her wounds would hurt more than most people would be able to tolerate, and that the doctors were surprised that she had been able to function as well as she had. She had suffered immensely to avert a bloodbath, and save as many of her men as she could. She deserved better that this, she had deserved better from him.

The scars weren't just on her face though, they were also on her breasts, stomach, and back. In the winter she would be able to hide the scars, and possibly cover the ones on her face and neck with make-up, but the ones on her body wouldn't be so easy to hide. Boris had only seen Balalaika wear a dress once. It had been a deep blue dress with a plunging neckline, and she had worn it for the battalion dance. She had been stunning, and every eye had been on her. The men had tried to convince her to wear it more often, but she had refused. Now she would never be able to wear a dress like that ever again. She would never be the envy of other women, wishing to be like her, and never again would men not be able to stop staring. Except at the scars. Those damn scars. Boris clenched his fists again, as another wave of rage, and shame came over him. Seeing Balalaika like this, made him want to kill that man all over again. He could still picture the entire thing in his head.

The air was hot and dry, but the rapidly descending helicopter kept them cool enough. Boris wiped sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, and gripped his Kalashnikov more tightly. They were going to save Balalaika, and he would not fail her a second time. He had never been on a helicopter that had descended this rapidly before, and they had already rapidly outpaced the other helicopter. 'Good, I'll be the first on the ground,' thought Boris. When the helicopter had gotten dangerously close with no sign of the helicopter slowing down, Boris cursed the new pilot Antanov that he had allowed to help. The crippled pilot, was probably having problems, and now was going to kill them before they had a chance to save Balalaika. Boris allowed himself a moment of hate towards him. The helicopter had flared so suddenly, that Boris had to grab a strap on the ceiling, to steady himself, as he felt his weight forced downwards, by the Mi-17 as it suddenly started fighting gravity again. The helicopter caught itself, and landed perfectly.

Maybe it had been a good decision to let the crippled pilot fly after all. He looked back at his men. They all stared back expectantly. He had already given the order to check their weapons, and now they were ready. They were all ready to save Balalaika. Fight for her, and if necessary die for her. Boris felt the need to say something. "Alright follow me," he bellowed. "For Balalaika!" With that be bounded off the helicopter, rifle up and searching. It hadn't been an inspiring speech, but it had been enough. His men followed with a war cry that seemed to shake the very earth. The compound was already burning, thanks to the hind that Antanov had convinced, to come and help them. He had proven his worth in getting them the support, but Boris hadn't cared for his boasting, that it would be no problem to get one to help. He was mouthy, but he had the skills to back it up. Two insurgent rounded a tent, and saw Boris, and they had tried to raise their weapons. He had raised own his rifle to his shoulder, and with precision his drill instructor would have been proud of, gunned them both down with a quick burst. The rifle bucked lightly in his shoulder, but tore the insurgents apart, actually exploding ones ribcage in a shower of blood and viscera. Boris and his men were using soft points for this mission. They were here to kill. They only wanted to have one person here to leave alive, and these men didn't make the cut.

Boris saw another insurgent, get his head caved in with the butt of a rifle, a snarling VDV driving it down. Another was jack hammered against the side of the concrete building, by a half dozen rifles, seeming to dance as his body was ripped apart. He saw several more get taken down cleanly with pinpoint shots, only showing the tiniest spurts of blood, and then another pair disappear in a shower of blood and limbs from an RPG. The VDV were fighting like men possessed, and they were giving absolutely no quarter. Boris saw a younger member of the VDV named Menshov fall on a group of insurgents with a cry of rage, when his clip ran dry, and he hacked them to pieces with his entrenching shovel. He saw another man named Anton, ram his bayonet into the body of another, and actually lift him off the ground screaming, before ending his cries with a prolonged point blank burst into his body, blowing a sizable hole in his body, and it showered Anton with his innards. Boris watched another VDV, actually bite, and tear out another mans throat, in close combat. They weren't fighting like men possessed, they were fighting like demons. Balalaika had been their angel, and they would have made a pact with the devil himself to get her back. Boris had to slide to a low stone wall, as a bust of fire kicked up sand near him. He slid to the wall, and hit it with his back to it. He popped up, and fired a quick burst, and then had to duck back down just as quickly, as a flurry of shots forced him back down, and began forcing the rest of the VDV into cover. The second chopper had already landed, and a similar assault was taking place on the other building.

The insurgents, turned out to be a mixture of Pakistani military, and Mujaheddin. They had deployed several machine guns, and they had forced the VDV into cover. The hind was keeping the mass of men off of their backs, by having them run for their lives in the compound, but the hind didn't have infinite ammo, and when it ran out, the mixture of Pakistani military, and Mujaheddin would turn their rage on them. They would be without cover when that happened. Boris popped up again, and fired another burst killing a machine gunner, before ducking back down again, as a storm of bullets hissed over his head. He looked up, and saw the Mi-17's circling above overhead, waiting for the word to come back down, and pick them up. Boris saw that many of his men were blind firing over the wall, unable to get a clear shot at the men in the building. Boris was trying to think of a plan, when he heard something. It was faint, but it was clear. It was a very feminine cry of pain. Boris stopped thinking at that moment.

He turned to the man to his left, and grabbed the RPG from his surprised hands. He stood up heedless of the enemy fire, and aimed square at an enemy machine gun. He fired, and with a whoosh, and a wave of heat the rocket screamed out, and actually struck the machine gunner in the chest, exploding both him, and a piece of the wall outwards. With a cry of primal rage, Boris charged the building, firing all the while. Nothing could touch him, he had just become their own personal demon. Following his example, his men followed him in his mad charge, while most of the fire was focused on him. He actually knocked a man down on his way in,and emptied the rest of his rifle into his chest. Another insurgent tried to aim his AK at him, but Boris knocked it to the side, causing the burst to hit another insurgent behind him who had drawn a bead on Boris's back, and then he grabbed the man who had fired by the head. Boris was a good head taller, and much larger then the other man, but he shouldn't have been able to lift him one handed, by the head. He shouldn't have been able, but he did. He flung the man onto an exposed piece of re bar in the wall, and it sprouted like some grotesque flower in his chest. He grabbed the mans rifle, and emptied it into another trio on full automatic, causing them to dance like sick marionettes, before pitching back in a bloody mess. A gleam in the corner of his eye warned him of danger, and Boris sidestepped an out thrust bayonet, then closing the distance, struck with all his force, and hit the man in the throat with his forearm. It crushed his throat, causing him to fall to the ground sputtering, and gasping for breath. Boris ended the sound, by stomping on his neck for a satisfying crack.

The rules of warfare, and statistics of battle, indicated that Boris should have been cut down by the wall of lead as he rushed the wall. That he should have been shot, by the sheer number of opposing men. That he should have died in what was clearly a suicidal charge. That he shouldn't have been able to take on so many men single handed. The statistics forgot to take into account his superhuman rage. He bounded down the hallway, far ahead of his men, killing any, and all he saw. An Arab man in civilian clothes came out a room, with a AK-47 in his hands, and aimed at Boris. Boris actually lifted him off the ground, with an upward blow from his knife, then snapped his neck as he came back down. Boris looked into the room his rifle raised, and ready to fire. In the room he saw a women, and several small children huddled in the centre. The children fearful, and clinging to their mother, while she did her best to put herself between them, and him. What Boris did would trouble him for years afterwards. He threw an RGD-5 grenade inside, and kept going. The mothers cries were cut short by a harsh explosion. Even a child can pull a trigger thought Boris, and no one was going to jeopardize Balalaika's life. NO ONE.

Boris threw a grenade down a flight of stairs, and after a muffled crump of an explosion, followed down the stairs, a liberated AK-47 leading the way. One man was clearly dead, while another man dazed was struggling to rise to his feet, an American Smith & Wesson .38 in his hand. Boris took him with a single shot to the head that painted the wall behind him red. The room had several cells in it. All of them empty. There was a metal door to the side though with an eye slit, but it was locked. Boris, went and hid on the opening side of the door. He didn't have long to wait. With a clack, the eye slit opened. Boris stood perfectly still, he didn't even breathe. With the sound of a deadbolt being thrown open, the door began to open, and he saw a hand carrying a Chinese knockoff Makarov begin to emerge. Boris slammed his weight into the door, and he heard the arm break, when the heavy metal door, forced it against the stone door frame. Boris grabbed the gun from his weak hand, and forced it into his mouth. He was a big muscular man in sweat stained army fatigues, and had bad yellowed teeth, and breath that smelled of Curry. His teeth became worse, when Boris broke his teeth, as he forced the gun into his mouth, and evicted the back of his skull from his body. He hit the ground with a wet thump.

Boris looked around the room. It was dimly lit, and had a forge in it. There were glowing pokers inside of it. There were some low tables, with various tools, and medical instruments, and down a branching hallway was another group of cells. There was also another metal door at the end of the room. Which way to go? Boris heard a shuffling sound, behind the heavy metal door. He had his answer.

He picked up a ring of keys from the dead man, and walked over to the door. He unlocked it, and kicked open the door, and rushed into the room, rifle raised. What he saw next made him sick. There was Balalaika, in the centre of the room, tied to a chair. She had black burn marks on her face and neck. The damage looked severe, and it looked deep. He thought he saw patches of red underneath the black, and it was weepy. She groaned softly, oblivious to her surroundings. "Kapitan," moaned Boris with anguish. "What have they done to you?" He rushed over to her side. His eagerness to help, almost cost him his life. With a flash of steel, a scalpel was thrust at Boris. He did not expect it, and had it block with his forearm. It cut deep. Boris ignored the large amount of pain coming from his arm, and fought the man with the scalpel. He would not fail with his beloved Kapitan so close.

The man who was fighting him was no soldier. He was an elderly Arabic man with a hawkish nose, and a craggy face. He was wearing a white lab coat, and khaki pants. He looked more like a doctor, than a rebel. Boris caught his arm, as the doctor tried to slash him again. He leveraged it, and forced it behind his back, and made him drop the scalpel. Boris wondered why there was a doctor in the room with Balalaika. Was he here to check on her? Make sure that they didn't go too far in torturing her?

Boris allowed his eyes to wander the room as he restrained the struggling man. Then he saw an object that caused the rage to rekindle anew within him. On a low table beside Balalaika was a hot poker, with flesh still stuck to it, and smoking. The doctor wasn't here to prevent the torture, he was here to administer it. He had done this to her. He had caused his Kapitan pain. He looked at the doctor with cold eyes. Now he would cause him pain.

He grabbed the man by the back of the head, and began to slam him into the stone wall. It make a hollow thunk sound, and eventually a wet squelch as his head began to rupture. Boris stopped himself from delivering the killing blow. This was too easy for him. He dragged him out of the room holding Balalaika, and back into the room with the forge. The hot coals glowed merrily, as heat radiated from them. The mans senses were too dulled to register what was happening until Boris shoved this head under the coals. The man screamed, but only ended up inhaling some of the hot coals, and stopped screaming as his face began to melt. Boris had to let go when his head caught on fire, to spare his hands being burned. Boris wanted to hurt him more, kill him again. But another low moan turned his thoughts of hate and vengeance into concern, and protecting. He grabbed a bag of medical supplies off of the central table, and rushed back to Balalaika again.

She was in a bad way, and needed help immediately. The burns were bad, very bad. She was caked in old dirt, and filth, and she looked thin like she hadn't been fed for a couple of days. Boris bandaged her face as best he could, and she said his name weakly. "Boris?" I'm here Kapitan, you're safe now." "The men," she said weakly. "They are here for you Kapitan," said Boris. What he wanted to say was that he was here for her. That he would keep her safe. He kept those thoughts to himself. He was her sergeant, nothing more.

"Are they...well?" asked Balalaika, clearly fighting immense amounts of pain. "They are fighting as we speak," said Boris. "They are doing well." "Good," was all Balalaika managed to say before she slumped forward in her restraints. Boris carefully pushed her back in her chair, and then took off the restraints. He was going to hate himself for this, but the muffled explosions of the hind were becoming less frequent, and if they took too long, they would be overwhelmed. The cracks, and burps of weapons fire was still at a high pitch, and they needed to leave now. He pulled out a needle of adrenalin, and jabbed it into Balalaika's chest. Her eye shot open almost instantly.

"We need to go now," said Boris insistently. Balalaika merely nodded, and struggled to her feet. Boris supported her weight, and they went as fast as they were able, only stopping to pick up the discarded .38 for Balalaika. Dead men didn't need a gun. Boris had ditched his AK, in favour of using his pistol, in the close confines. As they went up the stairs it looked like Balalaika was crying under the bandages. "Are you," began Boris. "I'm fine," said Balalaika tersely. Boris realized that a clear liquid, was coming out of all her burn wounds. The pain must have been extreme.

They raced down the hallway, and at one point almost gunned down one of their own. They came around a corner, and a man had an AK levelled at them. Boris had his Makarov up in a flash, but realized it was a VDV. Kerchev. He was a dependable man, who was a junior sergeant in the unit. He lowered his weapon when he saw Balalaika. "Kapitan," he said, relief evident in his voice. "We're pulling out of here on the double," said Boris. "Call in the Choppers." "At once Sergeant." His gaze lingered on Boris's arm. "Sergeant you arm is bleeding." Boris looked down. In his haste to save Balalaika, he had forgotten to treat his own wounds. "It can wait. We're leaving, now." "Follow me," said Kerchev, and lead them down the hallway, rifle up and searching. The VDV had secured the fromt of the building, and were holding it. They kept firing at anyone they saw, until the thumping of the rotors, became distinct, and the MI-17 landed. They rushed out of the building, Boris and Balalaika in the lead, being covered, by the rest of the VDV. They practically leapt aboard, and Boris helped the medics treat Balalaika, once everyone was aboard. Before they doped her up on morphine to control the pain, she had been staring blankly ahead, a look of all consuming hate in her eye.

The price of the rescue had been high, with 8 dead, and another 35 with wounds ranging from mild to life threatening. The final death toll, ended up being nine. Ten in you count Alexi who died of complications later, in surgery. The other man, number nine, Victor died on the return flight. They had been little more than kids, and they had idolized Balalaika. Victor had been an only child in his family. Boris felt sorry for the parents.

Boris looked down once again as Balalaika slept peacefully, in a drug induced haze. Boris saw a pretty nurse enter hesitantly. She had dark hair, brown eyes, and a shapely figure. She was also holding a teddy bear. Boris found himself feeling an unexplainable sense of unease around her. She looked at him seeming to ask permission to do something. Boris understood, and nodded. She quickly went, and put the stuffed bear on Balalaika's good side, and just as quickly left. When she was gone, Boris took Balalaika's clammy hand in his, and made her a solemn promise. He swore that he would never again leave her side. He would never again allow someone to hurt her again, as had already been done to her, or in any way that he could possibly prevent. He would protect her, his Kaptitan, his angel, his Balalaika, his...Svetlana. He held her hand in his. He would follow her wherever she went, on whatever path she trod. He would follow her into the depths of hell itself to keep her safe. He would never fail her again. He made this promise of new years eve. The following day it was 1987. A new year.

Antanov graduated from the Mechanics institute, at the very bottom half of his class. He had been the 87th highest scoring student, out of a class of one hundred. There were no special awards or commendations, this time around, and only a brief handshake to see him on his way, after nearly two years of studying, and hard work. In the end though, he was allowed to stay in the military to work on hinds. It was enough. Antanov now lived in the Ukraine, and observed a touch but don't fly policy with the hinds, and a few other aircraft that he was certified to work on. He didn't mind the work, so it was bearable, but he wanted to fly the machines, not spend so much time fixing them. Antanov chuckled whenever he saw a rookie pilot make a mistake, or land too hard. When they landed TOO hard, Antanov would only groan. It meant more cleaning up after rookie pilots.

Antanovs leg had healed well in the intervening time since Afghanistan, and he really only needed his cane near the end of the day, or after a rigorous PT course. Antanov had been trying to strengthen his leg, by going for walks. He had tried running, but had to stop when his leg had seized up, when he had pushed it too hard too soon. His leg only ever ached when it was cold. Unfortunately it was always cold in the Soviet Union, so his leg always ached.

Antanov's leg was aching terribly today, and he was looking forward to getting back to his little apartment, and relaxing for the evening. The brand new MI-24V hinds had come in today, and he had been almost giddy when working on them. He wished that they would have had some of the upgrades when he had still been in the war in Afghanistan. It would have made a world of difference. Antanov walked up the stairs, to his third floor apartment, and locked the door behind him as he entered. He set his cane in a little bin by the door, and then promptly sat down in his favourite chair in his sparse little apartment. There was a few family pictures, decorating the apartment, some nick knacks, and some dishes in the kitchen. However in athe living room, and entire wall was taken up by his medals, pictures from the 103rd, his certificates, and awards, and framed newspaper clippings about soviet victories in Afghanistan. When people came over, they called it his shrine. Maybe it was, but Antanov liked to look at it, and remind himself,that he had done great things for the Soviet Union. He had also started taking boxing lessons, and was progressing well. His doctor said that it helped to strengthen his leg, and Antanov found that he liked it, because he was good at it. It felt good to stand out from the crowd a little again. Antanov flipped on his TV, and decided to watch the news. It was really one of the only things to watch.

He half listened to some of the local stories. A house fire in the poor district, a drop in fuel prices, and some prattling about party rhetoric. Antanov liked the Soviet Union, but sometimes they got a little pushy with it. Antanovs ears perked up when they started talking about Afghanistan. He turned the TV up, and listened intently.

"Official's say that the conflict between the USSR, and Afghanistan has reached a decisive conclusion." Antanov felt hope rise in his chest, they had done it, they had finally won. He leaned forward to listen more closely. "The head of the Soviet military forces has declared a complete, and full with drawl of all Soviet military personnel from Afghanistan." Antanov felt his stomach drop. He didn't hear what they said next, he just stared straight ahead. They had lost? The motherland had been defeated? This had to be some sick joke. If it was Antanov didn't find it funny. He felt a cold fury begin to build within him. They were just going to leave? After all they had lost, after all the young men they had lost in those fucking Arab sands? Antanov clenched his fists, and began to shake. They should have killed them, just killed them all. Just rolled into their little dirt hut villages, and kept shooting until no one was alive. They would never have made good Soviets anyways, they were too stupid for that. The sun fried their brains, and the land was largely useless anyways.

Antanov looked at his wall, and looked at all of the old faces. They had lost so many, and now they were just going to leave with their tail between their legs, all the way back to Russia. Sergei died for them. Mikhail died for them. Yurri DIED FOR THEM! Antanov felt his rage boil over, and he exploded out of his chair, and kicked his tv over, causing it to shatter, and spark. He began to tear his apartment apart. He swept dishes off the counter, and they exploded as they hit the ground, sending porcelain in every direction on the wood flooring. Nothing was spared from his wrath. He ripped out drawers, and threw them through his outside windows. When he had broken everything in sight, he went to the closet, and took out his sledgehammer to cause some serious damage. He crashed it through his kitchen counter, and then turned his rage on the stove, reducing it to scrap metal.

He continued his rampage of destruction, destroying everything in he possibly could, and holing the walls. He stopped at the mantle, sledgehammer raised above his head ready to fall. He had stopped himself, from letting it fall again. On the mantle was a small porcelain miniature of a Cossack horse and rider. The very last present, that Yurri had ever given him. Antanov was panting hard as the hammer fell slowly to his side, and then to the floor, with a dull thud. He reached out, and tenderly took the porcelain miniature. He then slowly sank to his knees. "You died for them Yurri, and they don't even care. They just don't fucking care anymore." He held the miniature to his chest, as if it was the only thing that mattered in the world. "They just don't care," he whispered to himself. He was still like that when the militia came to take him into custody. Somebody had called them, when he had been in the process of renovating his apartment. He was still kneeling like that, in front of his little shrine wall. It was the only untouched part of his apartment.

In Leningrad, a women was staggering down the street, giggling to herself, and singing a soviet marching song. She would call out drill commands, and perform salutes, about turns, march, and counter march. She would laugh to herself occasionally, and she was smiling like she was queen of the world. She had long blonde hair, and a very shapely figure, that the greatcoat couldn't hide. Her smile would have been beautiful, if not for the horrible scars that marred her face.

Balalaika was riding a high again, and the world seemed so bright and happy. The birds were in the air, and the sun was shining. It was a great day for a walk. She had started by just walking to the end of her street, and with it being so nice, she had decided that she should go further. She had walked to the end of the block, and had then decided with it being so nice, to just go where her feet took her. She had decided that such a nice day deserved a song, and had begun to sing one, then another of the VDV's songs, and had begun doing drill to go along with it. It was great fun, but know Balalaika was getting tired. She had gone through her neighbourhood, the market, and then. Where was she now? She though for a moment, and then let it pass. What did it matter where she was, when the day was so nice, and she was having so much fun? She could find her way home, later. For now she was just going to enjoy the day.

She continued down the street, pretending that lamp posts were reviewing officers, and she snapped a perfect eyes right, and salute before giggling and laughing to herself about her own game. If Balalaika hadn't been high, she would have noticed, that she was no longer anywhere near her apartment on the good side of town, and was now wandering near the docks. More accurately, she was at the rundown warehouse district of the docks, where broken windows, and rust seemed to be in style.

Balalaika felt her eyes become heavy, and the world seemed so very dull now. She stopped singing, and started dragging her feet. She looked around, and saw what appeared to be a soft patch of ground in an alleyway. After a little nap, I'll head right back home, Balalaika told herself. She went, and curled on the ground, and went into a drug sleep. If she had been aware, she would have seen three dark shapes detach themselves from the wall, and close in on her.

"Must be our lucky day huh Bekhan?" The one named Bekhan leaned towards Balalaika. He was a man of medium build, and appeared to be in his late thirties. "But she's all fucked up," complained Bekhan. A large man behind him, with an anchor tattoo on his forearm, shrugged his massive shoulders. "Just throw a bag over her face, and it will all be the same, you won't be looking at her face anyways." "Easy for you to say Marat, you're already ugly," said Bekhan. Marat raised one bushy eyebrow. "You know if I didn't like you so much Bekhan I might just kill you, and throw you in the river." Before Bekhan could respond, the first man did. Bekhan, just quit your bitching, if you don't want any just go stand back and watch." "I didn't say that Omer," said Bekhan hurriedly. "Then just quit you bitching huh?" Marat laughed, Bekhan looked angry. "Take her pants off would you Bekhan?"

Bekhan squatted, and started pulling Balalaika's pants off. He only got them part way, when a large hand grabbed him by the back of the head, and slammed him face first into the wall. It broke his nose, and made him spit teeth. Omer, and Marat turned on the attacker. Omer pulled out a medium sized knife, while Marat took out a weighted club. The large man, caught Omers knife arm, and broke his wrist. He then kicked him into the giant, who simply pushed him screaming out of his way. He had to duck a blow from the giant, and then jump back from another blow. The man with the Anchor tattoo knew what he was doing, and he was good. Boris was better. Boris dodged another of the mans swings, and then delivered a savage punch into his solar plexus. The giant was winded, and then Boris delivered a knife hand chop into the mans throat. If not for his size, it would have crushed his windpipe. Boris finished him with an ear box, and then a right hook to the side of the head. He fell hard.

The man named Bekhan stood back up, and pulled a long knife out of his jacket. A click resounded unnaturally loud in the confined alleyway. Boris had drawn his Makarov, and was aiming it squarely at him. The man stopped, and just stared. Boris blew his brains out. He stained the dirty ground red. "Get up," said Boris to the remaining two. The giant of a man stood gasping, while the other stood up, nursing his injured wrist. Despite their conditions, they stood up slowly. The man with the gun was always the man in charge. Boris gestured to the dead man on the ground. "Dump him in the river, and if I ever see any of you again, I'll kill you too. Do you understand?" They nodded their heads in confirmation. "If you don't dump him in the river, and I don't hear on the news that they dragged his sorry ass out of it, I'm coming looking for you. Understand?" They nodded again. "Then do it," said Boris. They hurried to obey, the one with the broken wrist had some difficulty, but hurried his pace as Boris cocked the Makarov. Despite the situation, Marat was amused. He actually was going to drop Bekhans dead body in the river. When they were put of sight, Boris holstered his pistol. He would have to ditch it at some point. It was a murder weapon now. He should have just taken it out, and pointed it at them, they would have left. But Boris wanted them to suffer, for daring to even think about harming Balalaika, HIS Kapitan.

He went over, and pulled Balalaika's pants back up, his gaze avoiding her more exposed areas. After he finished that, he picked her up bridal style, and carried her to his nearby Lada. She drooled slightly on his coat. He didn't mind. He drove her home, and opened her apartment with the key he had made for it. Balalaika didn't have hers. He laid her down on her bed, and began doing chores. He brought up the groceries he had bought for her, and stocked her cupboards, and fridge. He did her laundry, and put it neatly away. He made sure she had shampoo,and all of her other feminine products. Boris finished, by brushing out her tangled hair, and then leaving.

Balalaika spent her meagre income on drugs, and gave no thought to rent, or food. Boris looked after her, by paying her rent, getting her food, and keeping her apartment liveable. Balalaika didn't know this though, and Boris hoped that she never would. He wanted her to believe that she was still strong, still independent. Boris had failed her once. Never again would he fail her. Never again would she be alone. Two years later it had been the proudest day of his life when she had staggered into the cemetery in full soviet uniform, and had rallied them. She was off of the drugs, and standing tall and proud. Fierce determination shining in her eyes, just like it had in Afghanistan. They had their angel back, and were ready to follow her into the depths of hell on a whim. Boris never told a soul, how he had kept a vigil over Balalaika, and how he had been her guardian angel.

The day the Soviet Union fell, was the day Antanov's faith was shattered. Despite everything though, he had seen it coming. When the wall fell, he didn't scream in rage like he did when they pulled out of Afghanistan, he just took it in shocked silence. After that he had started preparing, he had a plan. He had begun smuggling spare hind parts, to a dock warehouse, and other things, he would need. He knew he would only have one chance at it, so he had to do it right.

At the airbase, there was a sense of quiet failure. No one was following orders, and many just went home. Some like Antanov however were just wandering around, not understanding what to do. Antanov however knew exactly what to do. He had been discreetly loading the hind with a few personnel possessions, and fuelled it to the top. No one questioned him, because nobody cared. Among his possessions however, a porcelain miniature was missing. He had given it back. Antanov briefly reflected on it.

The sun was starting to sink, and the wind was cold. Antanov didn't feel it as he gripped his cane in one hand, and the miniature in the other. Antanov was in the cemetery visiting an old friend. Yurri. "Hello old friend,"said Antanov. He paused, then continued. "I feel like I'm going insane Yurri. The Soviet Union is crumbling all around us, and no one is doing anything about it." He paused, unsure if he could say his next words. "Yurri I feel empty inside, like I'm already dead. I'm not the same as I was in Afghanistan, or before." He shuffled his feet nervously. "People don't care what we did, and we didn't even make a difference. Our friends died for nothing, we lost Yurri. I don't even feel like me anymore, it's like I died with you in the crash, and a stranger stepped into my body." Antanov hesitated again. Yurri would have been furious if he had heard what Antanov was going to tell him next. "I'm leaving Yurri. The Soviet Union, Russia, Everything. I'm going to become a mercenary. When the Soviet Union finally goes belly up, I'm stealing a hind, and heading out. I know you would disapprove Yurri, and I wish you were still here to help me make sense of things." Antanov paused for breath. "I'm also changing my name. As far as the world in concerned Antanov Yeghevich died in Afghanistan with you, like I should have. My new name will be Artiom. I will have no last name, as to not bring disgrace to my family. I will be a fatherless bastard, and sell my skills to the highest bidder. I'm going to kill for money Yurri, and I wish you could be here to stop me." Antanov had to stop, and master his emotions before continuing. Goodbye old friend, I'll be seeing you soon." With that he turned away, and started shamefully wiping tears away. After he left, a porcelain Miniature of a Cossack stood Vigil Over Yurri's grave.

In the small of his back, hidden by his jacket, the newly named Artiom had an OTS 33 Pernach machine pistol. It had cost him a fortune on the black market, and Artiom had practised daily with it. He was a good shot with it now, able to shoot a tight cluster of shots, even on fully auto. Artiom had no money left, he had hinged everything on this plan succeeding. It couldn't fail. Artiom was climbing into his new hind, and powered it up. In was second nature, and it responded beautifully to his touch. Coming to life at the merest prodding. He had personally waxed the entire machine the day before, and it gleamed. Artiom was almost home free, when the local commissar walked up to him. He was a kindly old man, who didn't throw his weight around. He had several children, and a litter of grandchildren. Artiom didn't want to kill him. He rounded on the cockpit, and addressed Artiom by his old name. "What are you doing Antanov?" He didn't scream or shout, he just talked calmly in a fatherly tone of voice, like he actually had no idea what he was doing, and would be hurt when he found out that Artiom was stealing a helicopter. Damn him for that, so much like Mikhail. "I'm leaving sir." said Artiom not looking up from the controls. "I can see that, but why are you taking this hind with you? It belongs to the Soviet Union." "The Soviet Union is gone sir, and it belongs to me now." He sighed heavily, seemingly disappointed about Artioms decision. "We can still overlook this, just step out of the cockpit, and we can forget this ever happened. After all I am getting old and forgetful," he smiled to reassure Artiom, but he didn't buy it. He pulled his gun, and pointed it straight at him. A round was already in the chamber, and a click told him it was ready to kill. The elderly Commissar took a step back. I don't want to kill you, believe me I don't, but if you get in my way over this I will shoot you dead." The elderly Commissar just sighed wearily. "Maybe I'm just getting too old for this." He looked up at Artiom. Be careful son, don't dig yourself an early grave." When Artiom didn't falter, the commissar turned and walked away. He dropped his hat on the ground behind him.

Artiom closed the cockpit door, and took off into the sky unchallenged. Despite everything, he was happy. He was flying a hind again.

AN: Next chapter will be in Roanupur.(Yay!) I think I have established my character, and made him, and his faults fairly clear. I had originally intended to kill the commissar, but it didn't seem like the right time to see if Antanov actually enjoyed killing or not. Well review, and tell me how I did. I'll be gone Friday night, and most of the weekend, so the next chapter will probably be a bit later. Also what do you guys think of Boris and Balalaika? I can see it.


	4. Birds Change Colours

**Birds Change Colours**

AN: Quick note before I forget, My source of Dubbed Black Lagoon went down, and I need a new source. Anime Ratio took it down, and if someone could tell me where to find a new source, I would appreciate it. I can only crank out a few more chapters if I don't find a new source. Thanks. By the way when Artyom changes languages when he talks, it will be shown with * stars** * **

After Artyom fled the Ukrainian airbase in his liberated hind, be booked passage on an outbound freighter, and took everything he had with him. He had constantly been looking over his shoulder, and at his radar for interceptors on the flight to the harbour. No one had come after him though, the fall of the Union seemed to make everyone...just not care. About treason, desertion, theft, anything. You could have gotten away with murder, and he was sure that some people would. Artyom landed right at the docks, and the loading had begun immediately. The passage had been paid in Advance, with a shipment of AK's that Artyom had also promised in advance, and that were loaded upon the Hind. Artyom disliked stealing the AK's, but the hind didn't bother him, it was his. It was his, and he had earned it. Artyom had never been so nervous, and agitated in his entire life, while they loaded everything up. He was fearful, that someone would come, and arrest him. Deport him to Siberia, that despite the fact the Soviet Union had fallen apart, it's iron clad law would not be deterred. Or that some Spetsgruppa A would come and show him what the Motherland did to traitors. Artyom had heard they could make you beg for death, and thank them when they finally decided to kill you. It could be over in a moment, or drug out for weeks. It terrified him completely.

Artyom paced the dock length nervously, constantly looking at the loading platform to check on the progress, and he kept stealing glances at the gate. He fingered his Pernach nervously. Why had he bought one of the most expensive guns he could find? It was better than the Stetchkin he had been looking at, but it was nearly ten times the price. He could have made do with a Stetchkin, or simply just kept his service Makarov. He still had it, and it would have cost him nothing to keep. He had bought the Pernach out of simple vanity, but it was a damn nice gun, and was noticeably better than the Stetchkin. Still he shouldn't have spent so much on shit he didn't need.

He was a fugitive, and a criminal now. It was a sour thought, and one that Artyom didn't like to think too much on. He would never be able to return to the USSR. No, thought Artyom. The Soviet Union is gone, dead, and it's not coming back. This made another pang of sorrow course through him. He was leaving, because what he had fought for no longer existed. Antanov no longer existed. This was his path now, and there was no turning back. The sky was overcast and grey, it was gloomy, and it matched the day.

Artyom almost pulled out his Pernach, and shot the dock foreman, when he came up behind him unexpectedly, and told him they were finished loading. If he noticed Artyom almost pull a gun on him, he didn't mention it. Didn't even blink.

"You can board the Catherine if you want, we're finished up on our end." The foreman was a simple middle aged man in work coveralls, with a weather beaten face.

"Yes, yes I think that I'll board right away," said Antanov hurriedly. He found it ironic, that the ship had the same name as the nurse whom he had a fling with in Afghanistan. He had tried to find her afterwards, but had been unable to track her down. The USSR had been a very big place indeed. He set a brisk pace, and had to restrain himself from running up the boarding ramp. It felt liberating to get off the dock, and off of Ukrainian soil.

He had changed out of his flight suit, and now wore a black leather jacket, his Aviators, and some simple dull blue work pants. He still wore his combat boots however. His Pernach was nestled safely in a shoulder rig, on his left shoulder. He had come to prefer a holster on his chest as opposed to his hip. He supposed that it was because he had always had his Makarov in a chest holster. The weight had felt comfortable, like a friends reassuring hand. The Pernach felt the same way.

After Artyom stored his personal belongings away in his cabin, he returned to the deck of the ship, to watch the coast disappear. It was an older freighter, and it was beginning to rust. Artyom hoped that it travelled better than it looked. He was heading to Africa, to try and ply his skill there. He had heard that there was always work to be had there, and Warlords, and corporations alike would be willing to pay top dollar for some serious firepower. Artyom wondered if he would be able to take orders, from despots and capitalists. He had been raised to despise them, and believe in the unassailable power, and righteousnous of the Soviet Union, but now it was gone. If the Soviet Union was gone so too would his reservations have to go, if he wanted to survive he thought glumly. As Artyom watched the coast disappear into the distance, he steeled his resolve. As long as the dollar was green, he would work for the devil if necessary. He had read that most mercenaries only accepted precious metals, stones, or the American dollar in exchange for their skills. Now the only question was. How much money was he going to make? He had heard mercenaries could make extremely large sums of money, and the thought excited a part of him. He could have whatever he wanted, and still have money to burn.

It was on that fateful day in 1991 that Artyom shut Antanov deep down inside, where he wouldn't interfere with his life as a mercenary. Honour and duty did not matter in the life of a mercenary. His only loyalty would be to his next paycheck. The old Antanov would have been ashamed of what he would become, but it was the price he had to pay to keep fighting in a Hind Gunship. He was picking up the gun again, but not for the glory of Mother Russia, or the Soviet Union. This time he would be fighting for something that the rest of the world spent their entire lives trying to get. The almighty dollar. Artyom spent that night in a dreamless sleep. Antanov shut his eyes as he went to sleep that night, and Artyom opened them in the morning.

Artyom ran into a problem he hadn't anticipated would have even been a problem in his new life, money. It cost a lot to maintain, and run a hind. Simply to fly it around cost him thousands of dollars, not rubles, to keep running. Not to mention the armaments he used. He hadn't any idea how expensive the rockets had been, or even the ammunition for the .50 cal armaments. He had made a tidy some of on one job, and had bought a couple of .50 cal rotating gun pods to replace a pair of rocket pods closest to the Hinds fuselage, and had moved the displaced rocked pods to the outside hard points replacing his guided anti tank missiles. It wasn't like African Guerillas, or liberation armies had armour support, and if they did the 82mm rockets would more than suffice. It cut down on costs considerably to use the gun pods instead of rockets, but he found he was still running into the red on most jobs. He replaced the swivel nose .50 with a Gsh-23L mm cannon, for added firepower. The cannon had been another toy for his hind that he had managed to grab, before he left the crumbled Union. He had managed to grab enough munitions to support him for the first few jobs, but finding a reliable supplier was turning out to be hell.

Artyom had attempted to hire another gunner, and while some were okay, they just didn't have Yurri's skill, and most had been kicked out of the military for insubordination, and Artyom couldn't afford to pay the salaries they demanded. So he simply fired them. That and they always complained that his flying messed up their shots. It just wasn't the same without Yurri.

With much sweating, swearing, and frustration he had managed to slave the nose gun to his control, and use it in a fixed position. It took some work to sight it in, but Artyom was happy with the result. Artyom was mulling over his finance problems, in a Liberian Hanger, when the answer to his problems appeared in the shape of an elderly Vietnamese man in wing tip shoes, a brown sweater vest, khaki pants and a snap brim hat.

"What do you want," asked Artyom in English lounging in a lawn chair inside the hangar beside his beloved hind. It was cool in the hangar, and it was out of the scorching Liberian sun. He had begun taking English courses at the local university in the Ukraine after the wall fell. He learned the language well enough, and spoke it with a British accent. His professor had learned at Oxford University in England.

"I have come to enquire about your services," said the Vietnamese man in English with a mild French accent. Artyom perked up at this, a job meant money, and money meant paying bills. He stood out of his lawn chair, and walked over to the man, doing his best to minimize the limp in his leg.

"You've come to the right place," began Artyom smiling. "At Cossack Support, we offer a full service that can meet any and all of your needs. Whether it be combat or transport, we always guarantee satisfaction." Artyom then went full swing into his sales pitch, telling him about how his hind was state of the art, and about the different range of jobs he could do, and the jobs he had done. He finished and then asked if the man had any questions.

The elderly man took off his glasses, and rubbed them with a cream coloured silk handkerchief before speaking. "What do you charge for these services?"

Artyom internally berated himself for not giving him a price off the bat. That was sloppy. Smiling he continued on like this was still part of the pitch.

"Well I'm glad you asked sir. It's six thousand American dollars, for armoured transport, ten thousand American for a cargo transport, twenty five thousand for combat support, and thirty thousand for a full days fight. He finished, taking off his aviators, and hanging them from the pocked of the white polo shirt, and gave the man a smile to reassure him.

The Vietnamese man walked around him, with a newspaper tucked under his arm, and had an unreadable expression on his face. "Is that all?" he finally asked. "No additional charges for damage suffered, or armaments consumed?" He finished the question with one eyebrow slightly raised. Fighting to keep his smile Artyom answered him.

"No the price does not vary, and there are no hidden fees." Artyom finished with a salesman smile, he had him now.

"Is there a contract that I need to sign? Do I need to pay up front?" He began to ask questions more quickly now.

"No," Artyom stammered out, the man was firing questions out so fast that it was hard to keep track.

"Are you the only member of Cossack Support, or are there more? Support Personnel? Bodyguards? Contacts? Suppliers?"

"Ughh," was all Artyom managed to say. Being a combat pilot he could process massive amounts of information and detail in a split second, but that seemed to leave him as soon as he stepped out of his hind. Yurri used to tease him that it was because he was blonde, and so his brain got tired from the unusually high use, and needed a long break. He had been a prick like that, but still funny. It hadn't helped when Artyom had thrown his helmet at him, and it had missed. Then bounced off the toughened glass of the cockpit, and hit him in the head instead. Yurri had just laughed at him for that.

The man stopped for a moment, and then asked one more question. "How much money do you make in profit?"

This had gone far enough, thought Artyom. "I don't know who you are," began Artyom, "but you are asking a lot of questions for someone just wanting to hire out a gunship."

"Of course how rude of me," said the elderly man apologetically. "My name is Jacques."

"Do you have a surname?" asked Artyom.

"Do you?" he countered.

"Fair enough," said Artyom admonished.

"But I still need an answer," he continued. "why are you asking so many questions?"

The smaller man regarded Artyom for a moment and then responded, but not in the way Artyom had been expecting.

"You are going about this completely wrong in every way."

"What?" said Artyom in disbelief.

"You rose to meet me, and walked towards me. You showed me that I was more important and in control, that you were eager for business." Artyom couldn't think of a response immediately. "Next, you let me come in without an appointment, and you never raised that point, and also you are not properly dressed for a transaction." Artyom looked down at himself, and saw he was wearing white cotton socks, American running shoes, his polo shirt, and khaki shorts.

"You did come unannounced," began Artyom.

"And yet you greeted me without raising a single point about it, and almost seemed desperate for my business."

Artyom was starting to get a little mad now, and he was getting tired of the self assured little Asian man who assumed he could just walk in, and tell him how to run his business.

"Also you're prices are far too low, I'm surprised that you've managed to stay in business as long as you have." That was the final straw for Artyom.

"Who do you think you bloody are coming into my place of business, and telling me how to run it? If you don't like how I run my business, you can just go on your way you wanker," Artyom finished fuming. The man just regarded him from over the rim of his glasses.

"You're running out of money aren't you?" He said it like he was stating a fact, and already knew how Artyom was going to respond.

"What's it to you?" said Antanov hotly.

The man continued walking around Artyom in a slow circle, and when he spoke he used his hands to accentuate his words.

"I am a man used to dealing in terms of money," he rubbed his thumb and forefinger together as he said it. Artyom was forced to turn, and track the progress of his slow circle. "Whether for simple payroll, or under the table deals, there is no one better than I," he gestured around himself, still holding his thick newspaper under his arm. "I also do investments, stock exchange, and place gambling bets. Money is my life. It is the air I breathe, the ground I walk on, the food I eat. Money is the essence of life, it makes the world go round, and I spin the world. If you need someone to manage your finances, you will find no one better than I." He finished, and faced Artyom with a self assured look. They stared at each other for a moment. "Also you get angry too easily," he added almost as an afterthought.

* "You fucking prick," * said Artyom, self assured that the man wouldn't be able to understand him. He was getting tired of talking to him, but he did raise a valid point, he did need someone to manage his money.

* "It's rude to speak to someone in another language in the middle of a conversation, without it first being agreed upon by both parties." * Artyom was dumbstruck. How can he speak Russian? Who was this guy? "If you wish we can proceed in another language," continued Jacques. "I speak French, German, English, Dutch, Spanish, Russian, and Vietnamese fluently. I also speak Italian, Chinese, Urdu, and Japanese to lesser degrees. Do you have a preference?"

"I'll stick with English thanks," said Artyom trying to keep some form of control of the conversation. It was so damn hard to stay angry at someone, when they were so calm, and not in a condescending tone. Though he was getting more and more curious as to who this man was, who knew so much, at just a glance.

"Very well we will proceed in English," replied Jacques. He regarded Artyom from over the top of his glasses. "Do you find, that what you make is barely able to cover the costs of running your gunship? That you are barely able to break even, or even lose on jobs?"

"Yes," said Artyom annoyed at having to discuss finances with a stranger.

"That the simple costs of maintenance and fuel are turning your transport jobs into charity runs?" He finished, with a neutral look on his face.

"Again yes," said Artyom.

"So you are in need of someone to manage your finances for you, or am I incorrect to assume this?" Continued Jacques.

"You seem intent on making that clear," said Artyom shifting weight to his right leg, to alleviate the strain on his left..

"Then it is settled," continued Jacques triumphantly. "I will be your financier."

"I never agreed to that, or to hiring you," said Artyom. "What makes you think that I would hire you after this little show you've put on, hmm?"

"If you don't hire me, you'll be broke within the week," said Jacques his tone turning serious. "I look around, and I see you are almost out of spare parts for your Hind, unless you have more parts in storage which I doubt. The same goes for your armaments and fuel. Unless you make a significant amount of money shortly, I believe you with be bankrupt." Artyom just glared at him, and considered pulling out his Pernach from his hip holster, and drilling the annoying man between the eyes. After all there was a question he still needed to answer.

"Do we have a deal Mr. Artyom, or should I take my business elsewhere?"

"We have a deal," said Artyom reluctantly. He still didn't like having to hire someone, because he had been out foxed, but he had staked everything on this venture, and could not afford for it to fail, or else it all would have been for nothing. He couldn't accept that ever again.

"Stupendous," said Jacques cheerily. "I will retrieve my bags from the car. I will return shortly."

"* What * ," said Artyom incredulous. Had he planned this entire conversation out before hand? Had he been so sure of success that he had told a taxi to wait outside with his possessions, while he secured a job? Just who was he dealing with?

"Remember what I said Artyom, it is rude to switch languages in a conversation," called Jacques over his shoulder, as he left the hangar.

With Jacques helping with finances, the first thing he had Artyom do was raise his prices, by five times, what he had normally charged, and added costs for armaments expended. It left some of the warlords unhappy, but it dramatically increased profits for Artyom, and Cossack Support.

The next change,was that he found a permanent supplier out of Israel who delivered the supplies on time every time. The supplier went by the name of 'Dog'. Artyom assumed that it was supposed to be an allusion to dog of war, but he liked to think of it as that the arms dealer was his bitch. He was a rounding man in his sixties, who always seemed to be drinking fine imported French wines. He spoke softly, and shared Artyom's hate for Arabs. They got along famously.

Artyom also hired a full staff, but only a couple were permanent members, the rest were just hired labour that would either work the grunt jobs, load ammo into the hind, or work security. He paid them well, by African standards, but highway robbery by 1st world standards.

Artyom hired a South African doctor, who had been chased out of his medical practice, for medical negligence. At first Artyom had refused to hire him, for fear that he would cut corners, and in turn cut his life short. Jacques had convinced him to give him a chance. As Artyom watched him work, he had never seen a better doctor. Strictly professional in his work, honestly cared for his patients, and never ever cut corners. Artyom learned in a later conversation with the man that it had more so to do with him being a black doctor, than any negligence on his part. Apparently he had made some people mad by treating more serious black cases, before the white patients, who usually needed simple checkups. Seeing him work, Artyom believed him. The mans name was Brent Nickelson, or Dr. Nickelson. He had also done compulsory military training in the South African Military, which worked well for Artyom, since he could handle himself in a fight if need be. He was only a little taller than Antanov, and had close cropped hair, and he was always clean, or well dressed. It could have been his upbringing that made him so meticulous, or an effort to counterbalance the times he was drenched in blood.

Artyom also hired a technician to work on the electronics systems on the hind, since he could only handle the mechanical aspects of repair, and he needed someone to help with electronics, and lend a hand in fixing the chopper. An ex Pakistani military technician had applied, but Artyom had sent that fucker packing. He didn't want anyone aboard who would remind him of his experiences in Afghanistan, or the people who had cost him friends. He ended up hiring a girl from Poland, who knew her way around helicopters. Her name was Angelika, and she was still just a kid, only around twenty one years old. She was pretty, with brown hair, and light blue eyes, but had made it perfectly clear that the Hind was the ONLY thing she would be working on while she was working for him. She wasn't much shorter than Artyom, and had made her point VERY clear one night after drinks. She wasn't forthcoming with a last name, and Artyom didn't press, everyone had secrets they wanted kept. After Artyom's attempts at seduction failed horribly, they were able to work quite well together, and became somewhat friends.

For his head of security, Antanov had looked over several men, including a former SWAT member from America, An Arctic Ranger from Sweden, and an ex German GSG9 operative. The wealth of experience, and knowledge as well as skill that Artyom could call upon with his reserves of money still astounded him. He ended up picking an ex Albanian Paratrooper by the name of Besnik Remzi. His first name meant loyal or faithful, and he was the only one on Artyoms staff to call him sir. He was a very large man, who hadn't started becoming fat in his later years, and although his hair was grey, and white in places his skill with fire arms, and stamina was astounding. He always asked to have more permanent security hired on, but Artyom didn't want too many people involved in his business, so Besnik drilled the local hire's into something resembling a fighting force, able to strip, clean, and fire their weapons with a great deal more accuracy and precision than when they started. Artyom thought that Besnik enjoyed the work, relating it to training new soldiers, as he had done in the Albanian army for a while. He even inspected them, and gave them a name, 'Sabres'. A pun of the blade used by Cossack horsemen.

As for Jacques, he was a bit of an enigma. As much as it galled Artyom to think about it, he had personally saved Cossack Support, and had made the business quite profitable. The books were always kept up to date, and they had even been able to buy another couple of helicopters to move cargo instead of the hind. They had purchased and MI-8 transport, and an army surplus Iroquois helicopter. Artyom later learned that it was mostly just called a Huey. They were better on fuel, and could carry more people, if the client just wanted some of their guys moved around. He had also devised a way for Artyom to get a better result out of the warlords. He had Artyom put on his old Soviet uniform, with medals, pressed pants, and mirror like boots. Artyom would salute the warlords, and treat them like an officer. The warlords liked to think of themselves as generals, and to have decorated soldiers show that level of respect, and deference to them stroked their pride to no end. Even with the good that Jacques had done, and the ideas he had implemented it was obvious that Jacques could eventually be a liability. The man was addicted to opium, and he spent many of his off nights, at the local Bordello. But for all of his whoring, and getting high, he never once slipped up on his job, or let it affect his work,so Artyom let it slide. Aside from his name, Artyom knew nothing about the man. Then again he wasn't too forthcoming about his own past.

Artyom also had to face something that he hadn't expected to have to deal with in his life as a mercenary. Competition. There was a lot of rival merc companies that bid on many of the same contracts that Artyom himself bid on. There was Silver Service, War Veterans Union, and Extra Order just to name a few. They were all willing to kill for money, but if they wanted to make any they would have to compete, and see how little they would kill for. It was in late 1992 that Artyom finally locked horns with a rival merc group, and met a ghost from his past. He found Sasha.

The African sun was high in the sky as Artyom sat sweltering in the back of an old American made K-car, in his Soviet Uniform. He had two of his Sabre's driving him to his next meeting, and Jacques was in the back with him. Besnik had picked two of his better men to escort him, and they had their AKMSP rifles with them. Artyom could have equipped them with standard AK-74's, or a regular AKM, but he wanted his men to have nicer guns, and the tritium night sights really helped with guard duty, and the folding stocks made them easier to fit in the car. When Artyom let his guards go, he let them keep their rifles, and standard combat fatigues as a memento. A rifle, and knowing how to use it was an invaluable commodity in Africa. 'Dog' could get him any weapon he wanted, and with the fall of the Soviet Union, Artyom could buy a lot of guns for cheap, and had accumulated quite an armoury, of everything from Mosin Nagant rifles to Kornet Anti tank rockets. He didn't know what he would need one for, but it made Besnik almost jump for joy at the sight of them. Artyom kept giving him the money he asked for, and didn't know half the shit he was paying for, but his base of operations was quickly becoming a munitions dump. Besnik was trying to get his hands on the new synthetic AK-74M, which he assured Artyom would be a superb rifle to use. Artyom hoped he got them, because when Besnik wanted a new gun, he obsessed about it.

Artyom was brought out of his musings, by a bump in the road. His medals clinked as he came back down, and his cane rapped on the seat in front of him. That was another thing that Jacques had suggested. Instead of trying to hide his hurt leg, embrace it, and show that you were strong enough to show weakness to everyone. Since Artyom had to have a cane with him, he had special ordered one from Germany, intricately carved, with filigree inlaid, and a sword handle grip. Artyom wiped sweat from his face, with a handkerchief, and dabbed the back of his neck. The heat in Liberia was intense, causing waves of heat to rise from the ground, and make the air seem to wave, but at least the hot climate kept his leg from aching.

Artyom was going to try and win a combat support contract from one of the local warlords, and he hoped it would turn out a nice profit. He was usually paid in rough diamonds, and could almost always find a buyer easily, or use them in barter to buy whatever he needed. He preferred to be paid in American dollars though, they were always accepted, and much easier to use.

The Liberian city was noisy, crowded, and the majority of traffic was foot traffic, so it slowed Artyom's car to a crawl. He looked out the window, and saw armed groups of Militia roaming the streets trying to assert their warlords dominance. In the market he saw a variety of brightly coloured stalls, and elaborately dressed vendors, hawking their wares on any who came close, each competing for the populaces money. They were selling everything from fresh produce to fully automatic firearms. They were forbidden from firing them within city limits, for fear of causing confusion, and sparking a shootout between the warlords. The city was a ceasefire zone between the rival warlords, and it was where they hired their mercenary help, and conducted trade. Sometimes the mercs went to them, sometimes they went to the mercs. If you needed to hire a gunman, this city was the one to do it in.

Artyom had gained a reputation for dependable, and accurate combat support. His skills, training, and equipment were far superior to anything that the Liberians could throw at him, and in his armoured hind he was untouchable. Most of the 'soldiers' were little more than civilians who had been given guns, and an arrogant attitude. Even his hired help was better than them, but then again Besnik drilled them hard enough to bring a tear of joy to a commissars eye. They were extremely familiar with their own weapons, and very proficient. So much so that Artyom felt completely safe with the two men in the front seat being his only protection. They would do their jobs, and do them well.

Artyom pulled at his uniform again. It wasn't made for the heat of the desert, and it was extremely uncomfortable in the Liberian climate. He would have preferred to wear Soviet desert fatigues, but Jacques was adamant about maintaining the image, so in the uniform he stayed. Artyom scratched his side, it itched too.

He cast another glance out the window, and saw the other side of the war that he preferred not to see. He saw people missing their arms, begging on the streets, and small groups of refugees, seemingly wandering aimlessly now that they had reached the safety of the city. They had heard that in this city there was no fighting, and they had heard correctly. There wasn't any open fighting, but there was crime. What little amount of possessions that they had brought with them would have either been sold for ripoff prices, or stolen by the passing militia bands, regardless of which faction they belonged to. Artyom saw a pretty dark skinned African girl go by the window, as the car rolled by. He felt a momentary pang of sadness. She wouldn't stay pretty for long. Girls like her usually ended up as prostitutes, and wound up dead, or so full of diseases you wouldn't touch them with a ten foot pole. But for now she was pretty, and healthy. For however long it lasted.

The K-car turned off the busy market street, and began climbing a hill towards the better part of town, and his clients home. As they climbed higher, the amount of beggars and refugees dwindled into nonexistence. The rich and powerful didn't want the stragglers, and hanger on's stinking up their doorsteps, so they had their men keep them at a much greater distance, than arms length. Artyom's car had to go through several armed road blocks on the way up. Most of them were armed with AKM rifles, or even the early AK-47 rifle. Artyom always got annoyed when people mixed the two up. The AKM was an AK-47, but it was the improved version, made for better reliability, and easier production. Also they were more accurate than the beginning version of the famed Kalashnikov. It was an easy mistake to make, but it was one of his pet peevs. Some of the militia up on the rooftops were armed with SKS rifles, some American surplus M1 Garands. There were also some RPD, and Browning light machine guns to offer a better fire support, in case they needed it. Artyom saw some heavier machine guns mounted, but he couldn't tell what kind they were. Heavy support weapons were never his thing. He preferred small arms. Strange considering what he mostly conducted his fights in the hind.

The warlords were only minor players though. They were the drug dealers, arms dealers, and gang leaders, who had taken the opportunity of the new conflict to try and stake a claim in the country, and make their mark on it. Artyom had been apprehensive about working for African warlords, thinking that they might stiff him on a bill, or take his hind for their own forces. Needless to say, he was pleasantly surprised. Say what you will about cruel African despots, they paid their bills on time every time.

The major players were the RUF, NPFL, AFL,ULIMO, and the INDFL. Everyone else were just dogs picking at their table scraps. Dogs with a lot of money though. Monrovia at the moment was under the control of the AFL, and ULIMO, but he wasn't going to get a contract from them, he was going to try and get a contract from Peter Freeman, a local arms dealer, and purveyor of fine American movies. The most recent contract was to protect a shipment of small arms, and munitions over the border. If Artyom won the contract, the Sabres in jeeps would escort it, while he flew overwatch. The contract was for over three hundred grand, and easily worth the operation costs. Artyom still couldn't believe that he would have worked a job like this for only thirty grand at one time. The contract wasn't a for sure thing though, he would have to compete with Extra Order for it.

He wondered who they would send. Gregor maybe? The German was a good field commander, but he was no negotiator. Pablo? The Portuguese man was a decent soldier, and business man, and could usually sway someone to his side. He did have a habit of reverting to his native language when angry though, which put a lot of people off. Artyom tried to stop himself from doing that, and usually had Jacques do all the talking. Said five foot seven self proclaimed Frenchman was busy trying to catch some rest before the meeting. Artyom wondered how old he really was.

Peter's mansion quickly came into view, and it was a nice sized place even for the rich and privileged of Liberia. A ten foot stone wall with Spanish tiles on top surrounded the outside of the building. The Mansion was a good three storeys tall, and probably about thirty thousand square feet, surrounded by several out buildings. The guards at the main gates looked at their identification, and waved them through after an initial inspection to make sure they were who they said they were. They drove around a spectacular fountain, and to the main doors of the Mansion. Jeremy, one of Artyom's Sabres got out, and opened the door for him, while Joshua went and did the same for Jacques. Besides their Kalashnikov rifles, they each carried a pistol of their choice. Artyom was sure that Jeremy had a grenade on him somewhere, but couldn't be sure.

Joshua and Jeremy had to stop at the door, while Jacques and Artyom proceeded into the manse. Jacques still had his trusty newspaper with him. The man had a subscription to the new York times, and his paper was always at minimum a week behind. Still it was better than the locally produced paper.

"Remember to salute and call him sir", reminded Jacques as they walked through the Foyer.

"I know, I do it every time with every client, I'm not going to forget," said Artyom with a bored tone.

"You did once," countered Jacques.

"It was one time, everyone makes mistakes sometimes," countered Artyom defensively, looking straight ahead.

"A five hundred thousand dollar mistake", said Jacques completely serious, but a smile creeping into his words.

"Alright alright," said Artyom exasperated. "I won't forget this time, happy?"

"Marginally," said Jacques. Then with the corner of his mouth quirking up said, "Your buttons undone."

With a growl of annoyance Artyom quickly buttoned up one of his tunic pockets.

"Thank you", said Jacques pleasantly.

Artyom growled something under his breath.

"What have I told you about speaking in different languages? Especially that kind of language," chastised Jacques. Artyom didn't reply, only huffed in annoyance.

With a clacking of dress boots on tile floor, they arrived at Peters study. After a cursory search by another couple of guards loosely holding German G3 rifles, they were admitted inside. Artyom came to attention with a sharp clack, and snapped a quick salute to Peter, who returned a salute, if a vague arm gesture could be called a salute, and invited him inside. Peter was behind a great mahogany desk, with a large window behind him, and purple velvet curtains to the sides. Book cases framed the window, and off to the side, and around the room, was a variety of furniture, a bar, and a fireplace that at the moment was left unlit.

"Cossack Support if here as requested sir, and ready to offer up our services," said Artyom standing rigidly at ease, hands clasped firmly behind his back, chin high, and tone all business. Although Peter never admitted it, he liked to know that he was dealing with professional military men, and not blood hungry warmongers, when he hired security for his shipments.

"Come now save the sales pitch, Artyom,"said Peter cordially. "You've worked for me before, you don't need to go into your little speech. Come sit, sit." Artyom and Jacques found a seat in one of the padded chairs in front of the desk, and got comfortable.

"Can I get you anything to drink, or perhaps to eat?" asked Peter. In addition to being an arms dealer, he loved to be a good host. Nobody was ever unsatisfied in his company for long, and he seemed to take it as a personal affront if someone wasn't happy at one of his lavish parties, that he tried to hold regularly. It's hard to enjoy yourself at a party though when, a sniper starts taking potshots. It puts a damper on the festivities. After losing some of his guests to some disgruntled assassins all parties that he hosted now were indoors, safely behind his bullet proofed windows. Now if a sniper started shooting, they just closed the curtains, and turned up the music. He was a social butterfly, and was usually dressed flamboyantly. Today he was in a purple double breasted tuxedo with a pink dress shirt, and a flower patterned tie. You would never have guessed him as a dangerous man, or an arms dealer for that matter. However if you ever crossed the man he would slice you open, string you up, and display you for all to see. Some of them stayed alive for a couple days, some only for a few minutes. Depended on how hungry the local scavengers were. His temper was slow to boil, but once it did there was no averting a total meltdown. He and Artyom had a good working relationship, and so Artyom felt reasonably secure around him, and if Artyom cocked up a job, he would refund the man the base expense, and offer an apology. If it was beyond his control though, he wouldn't give the money back. It wasn't his fault of some village idiot of a driver drove off a cliff with a shipment of M-16A2 rifles.

"Just something to drink for us, if you would be so kind," said Jacques politely.

"Of course, a vodka, and a glass of red whine?" asked Peter. They got the same thing every time, but peter took his role as host very seriously.

"Yes please," said Jacques. Jacques had told Artyom that manners were free to give, and usually got you a large return. People liked it when you were polite.

"Very good," with a snap of his fingers, a pair of tuxedoed butlers began to prepare the drinks.

"I apologize for the wait, but I'm afraid that we can not begin our business until your competitors arrive to bid on the contract. If you like, you may take your drinks on the veranda," said Peter in a conciliatory tone.

"We don't mind the wait," said Jacques in a reassuring tone. The relief was evident on Peters face. He really hated it when his guests were upset with him. "Besides sitting on the Veranda would deprive us of your famous hospitality, and company." Peters chest puffed out like a pleased rooster, and after that, it dissolved into pleasant conversation, and polite inquries about how the other was doing.

They were all finishing up their second drinks, when the representatives from Extra Order arrived. Artyom could hear them on the other side of the great French double doors, getting searched. Peter set his bourbon down on his desk after taking a final sip of it.

"Well it appears that my other guests have arrived." He said it pleasantly enough, but Artyom could detect a hint of annoyance in his voice. Peter hated it when his guests were late. Hated it with a passion. Almost as much as he disliked fights at his home.

Artyom almost dropped his drink as he saw who came through the door next. It was a ghost from his past, and one person he never wanted to see again. Sasha. Artyom tightened his grip on his drink. Sasha had been the one to delay him, and Yurri getting their recognition. The reason? Sasha had said they were cowards, and had broken flight in the attack run, seemingly having lost their nerve. He had said that Artyom had damaged his tail, and in the process lost his own. With the midair collision, he said it distracted Mikhail long enough for a lone stinger to fell the hind. The story was extremely flimsy, and fell apart with a simple investigation, and testimonies of the VDV. Still it had cast a dark cloud over them that day, and threatened Yurri's recognition.

Artyom felt a cold hate begin to form in his gut. If he hadn't had his weapon taken away, he would have shot him in his ugly blonde face, the second he walked through the door. Sasha was a large man, and he was dressed in combat fatigues, and sunglasses. He had stubble on his face, and looked like he had just come from a firefight. The smell of cordite proceeded him, and the subtle scent of death seemed to flow from his like a miasma. Artyom gripped his cane. He could still kill him with it. However an act of vengeance would jeopardize the contract. It would have to wait.

Artyom watched Sasha strut into the office. He felt his displeasure grow. He gave no deference to the man he was trying to get a contract from, and treated him like he wasn't a superior, or even equal. He treated Peter like he was below him. The act wasn't lost on Peter, who began to drum his finger on his desk impatiently. That was a bad sign.

"Your late," said Peter in a deadly quiet voice. Anyone who knew him would have asked for an apology, which Peter would have graciously accepted, and then pretended that the offence, had never happened, and would have proceeded with business. However Sasha seemed to have had his ego inflated since 86, paid it no heed. That and his hair seemed to have inflated, he now wore it in a messy ponytail. Artyom thought it made him look like a woman.

"Fucking traffic was the shits on the way in," began Sasha too loudly. Peter frowned slightly, he disliked foul language. "Had to cap a couple of wannabee highwaymen on the way in." Artyom sipped his drink through tight lips, and Jacques eyed the situation, with more interest.

"I see that you had some diffi-,"

"You could say that again," cut in Sasha.

Peter pursed his lips slightly. He was a very good host, but Sasha was beginning to test the limits of his hospitality. "I see", began Peter again emphasizing the words, daring Sasha to cut him off again. "That you had difficulty getting here. Would you enjoy a drink, before we begin, or would you prefer to begin immediately?"

"As long as your paying, I'll take whatever you're offering." Sasha seemed completely blind to the social niceties that men like Peter lived off of. To imply that he would have to pay for his own drink suggested that Peter was either stingy, or couldn't afford to give him even a single drink. He was neither, and he flushed slightly at the perceived accusation. Sasha was improperly dressed, too loud, and simply out of place in the current setting. If he made the mistake of poking fun at Peters choice of clothing, he would be a fucking dead man.

"Well then, since you're late, we can get you a drink after our business is concluded." This was a bombshell from Peter. He lived to please his guests, and if he refused to meet his guests every whim, he was immensly displeased with them.

"Sure let's get to the meat of it shall we?" Artyom allowed himself a small smile, Sasha was going to lose the contract for himself, and he wouldn't even have to say a word.

Surprisingly Sasha turned out to be a very good negotiator, and despite his rough start managed to make a very convincing case for Extra Order. However good he was though, It was like holding a candle to the raging inferno that was Jacques negotiating skills. Add to that Peters dislike of Sasha, it wasn't even close.

Near the end of the negotiations, Sasha began to stare intently at Artyom. Did he recongize him? It had been eight years since they had seen each other last, and Artyom only remembered him, because he disliked him so. If he could recognize Sasha, could he do the same? He never looked directly at him, and he hadn't spoken through the entire negotiations. He had also put on more muscle, through his daily workout, and was at least twenty pounds heavier, and he was tanned too. He had also lost the remainder of his baby fat, if any had been on him, and even had a different look to him than in Afghanistan. The bright eyed idealistic man had been replaced by a cold hearted mercenary. Some things he had done as a mercenary would haunt him, but it wouldn't last forever. It was so detached in his cockpit, he doubted it would ever trouble his sleep. They were just shapes running across the ground normally, or people shaped objects. There was no way he could ever remember him. Feeling reassured, Artyom looked down at his drink and swirled it around. A blemish caught his eye through the bottom of the glass, and he looked down. Sitting proudly on his chest was a tarnished medal for courage...fuck.

With a flash of recognition across Sasha's face, Artyom knew that he remembered him. He had hoped that he wouldn't, that the years would have eroded his memory from him. It appeared that his wish had gone unanswered.

"Well if it isn't Antanov, I was wondering why you were being so quiet over there." Sasha had interrupted Peter yet again, but he too was now looking at Artyom, wondering why Sasha had called him Antanov.

"Hello Sasha, how are you doing?" said Artyom reluctantly.

"Just great, life as a merc is a lot better than being some fucking wind up toy soldier. Guess you thought so too huh?"

"I liked being a soldier," said Artyom tersely, "if you couldn't hack it that's your problem."

"Well holy shit I hit a sore spot didn't I Anty boy?" Antanov just glared, and tightened his grip on his cane. "Didn't like getting your wings clipped huh?" Anty boy."

* "Shut your fucking mouth you fucking fascist coward, I know you turned tail and ran that day, and so does everyone else." * Artyom was seething now.

Sasha just smiled, took off his sunglasses, and said, * "We both know Yurri was the coward now don't we Antanov?"*

Artyom stood in shock for a moment, mouth agape. Sasha stepped back, and got ready for him to throw a punch. He didn't expect Artyom to attack with a blade. With a cry of Animal rage, Artyom clicked off the clasps of his cane, and thrust it to the side. The decorated covering flew off like a miniature missile, and revealed two and a half feet of tempered German steel. Artyom lunged towards Sasha, and swung with all his might, trying to behead him. Sasha managed to twist out of the way, but the blade still dug a deep groove out of his cheek. Sasha grunted in pain, and lashed out by throwing a paperweight off of Peters desk. Peter stood in outrage, just as the metal paperweight struck Artyom in the chest, winding him. Sasha capitalized on this, by tackling Artyom to the ground, knocking his sword cane free.

Back in the 103rd Artyom's brawling skills had been negligible. But that had been the old him. The new him, had taken boxing for four years, and learned how to grapple from Besnik. They wrested on the ground, lashing out with punches, and kicks, pressure points, and brute force. Artyom got his with a punch to the face, which broke his nose, while Sasha hit him in the mouth, splitting his lips, and chipping a tooth. They continued trading blows, and Artoyom wanted to kill the man. By the time Peters butlers/bodyguards pulled them off each other, they were both bloody, and dishevelled. Artyom was pulling trying to get at Sasha, while Sasha just stood there and laughing.

"Couldn't ever take a joke could you Antanov?" he punctuated his private joke with another laugh, but stopped, as it pulled at the cut on his cheek.

"EVERYONE OUT NOW!" raged Peter. The guards manhandled Artyom and Sasha out of the room, while Jacques did his best to console the angry man. Peters dark face was twisted in a sneer of complete anger. Only his iron shod courtesy towards guests, stopped his from killing them there, and then.

"Always were pissy, weren't you Antanov?" called Sasha as they dragged him off. For a brief moment in time, the ice in Artyoms heart melted, and he became Antanov again briefly. His eyes showed signs of life for the first time in a year. "Egor, * You always could tell people how they were acting, even if they didn't like to hear it." * Artyom smiled truly, for the first time since he left the Soviet Union. An actual smile of happiness. It hurt his lips, but he didn't mind.

Just as quickly again, the brief spark of life was snuffed out, and Artyom came to the fore. He stopped struggling, and allowed himself to be escorted out of the mansion. Joshua, and Jeremy were waiting by the car, AK's at the ready. Without a word, Artyom entered the car, and was soon followed by Jacques. Artyom played with the Pernach the entire ride back. No one said a word. The murderous anger that seemed to seep from Artyom's pores was enough to keep them from saying anything. Not even Jacques said anything.

Needless to say, neither Extra Order, or Cossack Support got the contract. Peter had been in a foul mood for the rest of the week, and had pouted for a month. He eventually reconciled when Artyom held a party of his own, and had him as the guest of honour. Peter had shown up at the party, and had lost himself in the group of social elite, and pretty women that Artyom had invited. He had worn a veridian green three piece suit, and an electric blue neck tie, with a navy blue dress shirt. They had repaired their relationship after that. After 92, and the attack on Monrovia, the civil war started to die down, so Artyom began to drift around Africa. He worked odd jobs, and still made a decent living. To his immense surprise, and delight Jacques was an excellent chess player, and they had many good evenings playing simple games. Angelika had managed to trick them into playing monopoly, and after 5 hours they had wanted to quit. She had put on her best pouting face, and had managed to sucker them into playing until they finished. Three hours later. Dr. Nickelson enjoyed playing with her, so Angelika usually ended up tricking some of the temporary help into playing once in a while. Artyom ran as fast as his crippled leg could carry him, when she pulled out the monopoly board.

Besnik, believe it or not, was a fan of a sci-fi series called Warhammer, and would leave for a week every year to go to Comic Con, and play in the tournaments. He got Artyom into it, and it actually was pretty fun, even if he did have to paint the pieces himself, he usually got Angelika to do it in exchange for playing monopoly.

Jacques was a card shark, and would usually play for fun, and let them win. When they played for money, he cleaned them out completely. Angelika would pout, and then Jacques would give her some of her money back, and the would give him a kiss on the cheek. Artyom tried to get his money back sometimes, but Jacques had said that he wasn't pretty enough. The hell he wasn't pretty, little bit of sexism going on in Artyoms opinion.

Artyom, enjoyed going around Africa with his team, it felt like he had found what he had been missing, he had found a family again. It felt like he was in the 103rd again. They were all friends, and they were as close as people could be together. Brent patched them up, and they all at one point or another owed him their lives. Besnik almost bit it, in the Congo, from a stray round, but Brent had come through, and patched him up. Angelika's chipper attitude, was always good for a laugh. Besnik seemed to adopt Angelika as a surrogate daughter, and guarded her jealously from admirers, and the local boys. And in some cases girls.

Jacques opened up in more ways, offering advice and guidance, but steadfastly refused to talk about his past. Angelika later revealed that she had fled Poland for caving in the skull of her boyfriends head, after finding him in bed with another woman. The 'woman' had been eight years old. Besnik regaled them with old war stories, and some of the funniest stories that he had heard or witnessed in his long career, as a soldier. Artyom told them about his time in Afghanistan, but kept his old name to himself. Only Jacques knew it, and he hadn't told anyone. Brent had, told them, how he had grown up in a poor family, and had worked damned hard to get his medical degree, only to lose it, for sticking to his morals. In America it would have been an Emmy award winning film. In Africa, it was simply another story, people were too busy to hear. Through the rest of 92, and 93 they travelled around Africa, plying their skills, and leaving trained teams of mercenaries in their wake. In 94, opportunities began to dry up, and so Artyom, with Jacques advice, went to seek employment, in Southern Asia.

The Saint Joan plodded steadily through the waves, and Artyom was stretched out on a full body lawn chair, trying to catch some sleep. He was wearing tropical shorts, and his aviators, and sandals. Angelika was sunbathing in a Bikini, and nothing else, face down on a thick mat, and towel. Besnik's glare kept the horny crewman away, those who stared too long received a warning look from the large Albanian.

Jacques was reading a book, and was wearing his favourite fuzzy slippers, and his usual formal clothes, which amounted much to what he had been wearing when he had first met Artyom.

Brent was below decks, helping the meagre medical staff, manage the day to day injuries aboard a cargo ship. He didn't have to, but he had said, that he wanted to feel useful.

The hind was covered by a large tarp, and some frame supports, to hide it's shape, on the main deck. The other helicopters, and equipment were all below decks. The sky was a pure blue with a few puffy white clouds. A few gulls sounded once in a while, all in all it was a very nice day. The nice day however, was ruined, by the sounding of the large foghorn. Artyom gave up his uneven contest to find sleep, and got up slipping on a tan tee-shirt. He grabbed checked his Pernach, and saw it was still in his little nap sack, and got up. He saw a woman crew member with raven coloured hair walk by, on her way to the front of the ship.

"Excuse me miss," began Artyom, "do you know why they are blowing the foghorn?"

The woman turned to face him, and Artyom was pleasantly surprised to see a woman in her late twenties, with Aquamarine eyes, she regarded him for a second as if sizing him up. Artyom knew those eyes, they were the eyes of a soldier, the eyes of someone who had seen too much too soon in life. The very same eyes would be staring back, if his Aviators weren't on. She quickly put on her company smile, tried to brush off his concerns. "It's just a fishing vessel that's strayed into our path sir, and we are just trying to get it to move."

She started walking to the prow of the ship again, and Artyom followed. She looked back, and Artyom saw annoyance flicker in her eyes, before she turned to him again.

"Sir, please go back to what you were doing, I have to check on the boat in front of us." She spoke with a strong Irish accent, and when Artyom didn't budge, she sighed heavily, and said, "fine, if your going to tag along just stay behind me, and away from the edge of the ship. I have better things to than drag you out of the drink. We clear?"

"Crystal," said Artyom mildly amused. She just rolled her eyes, and said something under her breath. Artyom just watched her hips sway in her white sailors uniform, on the way to the prow.

They got to the prow, just as they heard a man on the back of the boat in front of them start trying to get their attention. He didn't see the two of them at the end of the ship, and was trying to be heard by the bridge crew, unsuccessfully.

Artyom perked up his ears, and realized the hesitant man was actually asking them to stop the ship, and surrender, he laughed until he saw the torpedoes on the boat, and realized it was a military boat. The crew woman with him must have realized it too, because she uttered a curse, and began trying to raise the bridge crew, on her little radio. She was cutoff, as a woman who looked like a cheap hooker, barring the RPG started shouting far more forcefully for them to stop the boat. Their eyes widened as they realized that she was going to shoot the rocket at them.

"DOWN!" with a shout, the woman with the Aquamarine eyes tackled him to the deck, just as the rocket impacted the front of the ship, and with a wave of heat, and a cacophony of noise, the rocket exploded. Black smoke poured into the previously pristine sky.

Artyom was still getting his bearings, when the Irish Woman hauled him to his feet. "You okay," she asked seemingly actually concerned for his well being. Artyom was touched.

"Fine," said Artyom Brusquely. He then took off at a run towards his hind. Some crewman, and all of his team that were on deck were there to meet him.

"What the hell happened?" asked a crewman who appeared to be in charge.

"Pirates," was all Artyom said to him. The mans face paled, "what? Here, bu-" Artyom never let him finish.

"Beznik let's get this bird in the air, you too Angelika." Angelika had put her top back on, after the missile struck, and was now sporting a P-83 pistol in her right hand. Beznik had a Bulgarian Arcus 94 in his right hand also. Artyom realized that in the mad run back to the centre of the ship, he had drawn his Pernach.

They ignored all questions, and began to quickly take the shape hiding framework from the hind, and took the tarp off. The crewman just stared at the lethal gunship. It gleamed brightly in the sun. Although it's rocked pods were stored below decks, it still had its cannon and gun pods attached, and a few crates of ammo nearby. It might not have fangs, but it still had plenty of teeth. With a clack of shoes on metal, the Irish woman came to the hind.

"What the bloody hell in going on here? What's with the gunship on the ship?"

Artyom ignored her, and began loading ammo into the hind, as the woman from before began to say something about her rockets being faster than their distress calls. Artyom would have continued to ignore her, if she hadn't grabbed him, and thrown him against the side of the hind. Beznik had his pistol up in a flash, and Artyom's Pernach was in her gut. She seemed heedless of the danger.

"When I ask a fucking question, I expect a bloody good answer," she looked at Artyom with furious eyes.

Artyom got over his initial surprise, and then answered her. There are pirates attacking the ship, We're loading up the hind, and then we're going to kill them, any questions?" Artyom was sure that would get her to back off.

"I'm in."

"What?" asked Artyom incredulous. Had she just assented to helping kill people?

"I was a Royal Marine, I can handle myself in a fight." With that, she took off her pristine sailors tunic, threw it on the ground, and started helping load ammo into the hind. I guess that works, thought Artyom. The other sailors were useless in the loading, so Beznik instructed them in clearing the frame, and tarp away from the hind. Angelika finished unfurling the titanium rotors, as they finished loading the guns. It wasn't enough, they weren't even half full. With the roar of engines, Artyom saw a score of other, smaller boats begin circling the St. Joan. * "Shit" * said Artyom reverting to Russian for a moment. He turned to his head of security.

"Beznik."

"Yes sir." he replied, with all the discipline drilled into him, in his long life as a soldier.

"Break out some of the small arms, and arm the crew. If those pirates board, I want them so full of holes, they won't know which one to piss out of."

"Can I use the new AK-74M's?" Asked Beznik eagerly.

"Yeah you can use the new rifles." Beznik disappeared in a rush, and went to get his new guns to field test them. Artyom was surprised to say the least, when the Irish woman from before charged the door mounted machine guns, and was already strapped into the hind.

"What do you thing you're doing?" demanded Artyom angrily. She looked at him like he was stupid, before answering.

You aren't even half full of bullets, and you're out of rockets. The way I see it, you need all the firepower you can get." They had a stare down, until Artyom had to admit defeat.

"Alright just don't waste my bullets," said Artyom sharply.

"Don't worry, I won't." She had a cocky attitude about her. Artyom hoped she lived up to it. After Artyom pulled a balaclava over his face, and put his aviators over his eyes. He settled into the cockpit, and with a whine of power started up the engines. As the rotors began to thump, Artyom felt the familiar feeling of Anticipation return. In all his years of fighting, it hadn't lessened, hadn't dulled. He felt the familiar feel of his heightened senses come into play. He had given the Irish Woman a headset to use. He didn't give her any warning, when the hind leapt into the air. It was time to hunt again. Beneath his balaclava, his face was set in a feral grin.

AN: sorry for the long delay, but I think that this is my longest chapter yet. I wanted to have a bit more of Roanupur in here, but I think it's in a decent spot to start a new chapter. Next chapter will have revy, rock, and some other of our favourite characters, as point of view characters. I kind of skipped proofreading, so forgive me if there are some mistakes. If there are a lot, tell me, and I'll edit the chapter. This update, goes into it's 22nd page. I will try to keep it once a week, but when I update, it will probably be at least 10 000 words, so I think that it will be worth waiting. Also how is my story going? Is it to fast, poorly written, or pretty good. Let me know what you think. Also If someone wants to put in a name for the Irish Woman with Aquamarine eyes, feel free. She'll be sticking around, and I haven't chosen a name yet. I've tried to stay away from unique character hair/eye colour, so forgive me for indulging a little. As always review, and feel free to send me some messages.


	5. Settling in a new roost

**Settling in a new roost**

It was a peaceful day in the South China Sea. The sky was clear, a cool breeze kept the temperature pleasant, and the water was sparkling merrily, like a thousand diamonds caught in the golden glow of the sun. A few seagulls circled lazily overhead and would occasionally call out. It was the perfect day to just relax and forget about the worries of the world. A little paradise, in a hard uncaring world. A harsh explosion shattered the illusion of peace.

"NOW LISTEN VERY CARFULLY YOU DIPSHITS," shouted an extremely angry woman into a megaphone. "MY ROCKETS ARE A FUCK OF A LOT FASTER THAN ANY OF YOUR SHITTY DISTRESS CALLS, SO IF YOU DON'T WANT TO END UP AT THE BOTTOM OF THE FUCKING OCEAN IN A CORPSE FILLED SHIPWRECK, YOU HAD BETTER STOP YOUR SHIP. YOU GOT IT!" She finished her burst of outrage, and was not at all winded from the long, and profanity filled warning to the ship Saint Joan, which now had a pillar of black smoke rising from the bow of it.

"Was that really necessary Revy?" asked a more timid man to her side.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP ROCK!" The newly named Revy directed her rage at Rock, and now he was forced to deal with it. In a way he was lucky. Revy hadn't had time to reload her RPG yet, but then again she always had her Beretta's.

"Okay, okay I'm sorry." said Rock in a conciliatory tone, trying to disarm the ticking time bomb that just happened to be called Revy.

"Yeah whatever," said Revy dismissing Rock's apology. She acted like she didn't care if he said it or not, but Rock was sure that if didn't apologize she would only get more angry. "Looks like the fuckers have got some sense after all, continued Revy. The Saint Joan was indeed slowing down, and indistinct shouts were heard coming from the crew deck. "I guess they didn't want to find out what being a corpse felt like." Revy burst out in a laugh at her own joke. Rock didn't find it that funny, but it kind of was in a dark way. When Revy finished her laughing fit, wiped a tear from her eye, and started talking to dutch on the headset. "Yo Dutch, how long do we have to sit a round, and babysit this rusting scrapheap?"

"Not long," a deep baritone voice came back over the headset. "Lee Pahn's boys will be here in a couple of minutes to take it off our hands."

"Ughhh," groaned Revy. "So how long is a couple of minutes? The couple of minutes, as in let me put my shoes on and get my coat. Or be back in a couple of minutes, and then ditch your brat in a toy store, and not come back?"

"You just ooze maternal instinct, you know that Revy?" said Dutch in a slightly bored voice.

"Just answer the fuckin question Dutch."

"Well Benny has them on radar, so you should be able to see and hear them in about two minutes."

"Sweet," exclaimed Revy grinning ear to ear, "can we go out drinking after this job?"

"Well we don't have a job tomorrow so I don't see a problem with it, and I think Bao has the Yellow Flag up and running again. So if you want we can all head over there tonight, my treat."

"Fucking A," burst out Revy happily. "I'm gonna drink till dawn."

"You do that Revy, you do that," chuckled Dutch. Revy might be a volatile dangerous person, but with the right touch she was the best hired gun in southeast Asia.

Dutch leaned back in his padded chair and lit a cigarette. This job had been easy, quick, and bloodless. Dutch enjoyed these kind of jobs the most. He knew that killing was unavoidable sometimes, but he understood why some people fought when he and the rest of Black Lagoon tried to highjack their ships. If someone ever tried to take the Black Lagoon from him they would have to throw his corpse overboard, because there was no way anyone would take his ship from him while he could still draw breath. Dutch dispelled the displeasing train of thought from his mind along with a cloud of smoke, and focused more on the task at hand. In his experience if something was going to go wrong on a job it would be right at the end, while everyone was getting jittery or lax, or right at the beginning if things went to hell. So far nothing had gone wrong, and the job was shaping up nicely.

He preferred going after company merchant liners, than privately owned ships. Most company merchant captains would just cut their losses if pirates showed up, and comply. Privately owned ships were usually a family business, and he preferred not to go after those. You never knew how much they'd do to protect the business, or the perceived threat to their family.

Dutch inhaled again, and closing his eyes in contentment exhaled slowly, although he had a little nagging demon of doubt at the back of his mind. Why did Lei Pahn need them to grab this ship for him? The man had a small fleet of pirate boats, and even some torpedo boats like the Black Lagoon. The man didn't like to try and tangle with the Taiwanese coast guard, but they were in international waters. The Lagoon was faster than anything he had, but still it was a cargo freighter, it wasn't like it was a speed boat. The nagging in the back of head turned into grim understanding, when Benny popped his head out of his hatch.

"Hey Dutch, how many ships was Lei Pahn supposed to be bringing along on this job?" There was a nervous edge to his voice, and it made Dutch's nagging little voice increase to outright harassment, for its desire for Dutch to listen to it.

"Just a couple of boats, to herd it back to their port, why?" He already knew the answer, but he hoped he was wrong. He knew he wasn't.

"Well I count at least nine ships closing fast, from the rear of the Saint Joan, and they aren't answering our hails."

Dutch rubbed his forehead, in agitation. The job had been going so smoothly, but now it was all falling apart. "Keep trying to get a line with them, I'm gonna get us ready to make a run for it." This wasn't the first time Dutch had been screwed, but it still meant a loss of profit for his business.

"We're running away?" asked Benny in surprise, "But what about our contract?"

"Only us and Lei Pahn know about this. If those are his boats like I expect, then we're not getting paid anyways." Dutch spoke crisply, but not harshly. He had mastered the ability to let people know he was being serious, without putting them down. There was no need to ride your crews ass over every little thing when there was no need. When you lived in such close quarters with people, you learned to work together and live together like a family. When you depended on people everyday for you life, you form a bond, and it's hard to break that bond. When it's real. That's why he hired on permanent crew instead of temporary mercs. They were fine when you needed the extra muscle, but you didn't know if they were going to stab you in the back to make a little extra profit."

"You got it Dutch," then Benny disappeared, back down his hatch into the eyes and ears of the Black Lagoon. He was going to try and reach the boats again, like Dutch asked. Dutch knew it was useless. If the boats hadn't answered by now, then they weren't interested in talking.

"Hey Dutch." Revy's voice crackled over the headset. There's like a fucking fleet of boats coming up our ass, should I start putting some dumb motherfuckers in early graves, or is Lei thinking he's taking on a goddamned battleship?"

"We're pulling out Revy, and if they start attacking us, show them what happens to people who think that they can mess with Black Lagoon."

"What about the fucking pay?" Asked Revy, particularly worried about the money side of not completing the job.

"We're getting out of here, this jobs a bust."said Dutch mentally preparing for the audio assault his senses would soon suffer. He didn't have long to wait.

"WHAT DO YOU FUCKING MEAN IT'S A BUST!" Raved Revy over the head set. Dutch pulled his own a little away from his ear, and could hear the muffled voice coming through the metal doors behind him, and the tinny voice from the headset. Despite the difference in sound of the two voices, they both had one thing in common. They were both coming from a VERY pissed off woman on the back of his boat. Dutch knew how to handle this though.

Ignoring the profanities coming at him over the headset, he began calming Revy down.

"Relax Revy, once we get back to Roanupur, I'll still take you to the Yellow Flag like I promised." Revy was quiet for a moment.

"Can we stay till morning?"

"Yes we can stay till morning Revy, just like you wanted." Revy cheered up immensely at the news. Honestly sometimes Dutch felt like he was dealing with children. He looked at his watch, it was only eleven. AM.

"Then what are we waiting for?" said Revy enthusiastically, "let's blow this Popsicle stand, and get the fuck outta here. "Rock you Pussy load the RPG for me would you." Dutch didn't hear Rock's response, but from Revy's reply but he got the gist of it. "WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON'T KNOW HOW TO LOAD THE FUCKING RPG?" Sometimes Dutch wondered how Revy didn't explode from all the yelling she did. That and the anger.

Dutch strapped himself back into his chair, and decided to see if maybe Benny had got in touch with Lei Pahn. Maybe he was wrong about this situation, he could be getting paranoid.

"Hey Benny you those boats on the horn yet?" He didn't expect anything, so he was surprised when Benny replied in the positive.

"Yeah I got a line from Lei, and he wants to talk to you." Benny's tone was overly hopeful. He thought that this had just been a misunderstanding. In Dutch's opinion, he still acted too much like a college boy. Although he had to admit, he felt a flicker of optimism rise in his chest.

"Ya there Dutch?" came a far too pleased voice over the radio. Dutch had heard that tone before. The tone of a man who believes hes won, and done it by laying an elaborate trap that he thinks all he has to do is spring, and finish you off.

"I'm here Lei." began Dutch, getting the Lagoon to make a run for it. "Lot of boats you brought for an escort mission. Care to explain what's going on?" The laughter over the radio was all the answer he needed.

"You never were too bright were you Dutch?" Dutch felt a flash of annoyance, he knew far more than Lei thought. "You've been getting all the fat and easy jobs around here, especially from that fry faced bitch Balalaika." Lei took on a harsher tone as he continued. "I'm sick of it dutch. I'm sick of you getting rich off of all these fancy jobs with the big payoffs, while I get stuck with table scraps. When I blow you out of the water, I'll be top dog around here, me. Not you, not your pansy assed crew, me." Dutch pushed the engine to full, and the boot took off through the water like a rocket. Laughter followed him through the headset. "When you see the devil, say hi to him for me would ya?"

"I'll tell him to save you a spot right by the heater, would you like that Lei?"

"You always thought you were so fucking funny didn't you Dutch? Well yo-." Dutch never got to hear the end of the conversation, because it seemed that Benny was as tired of him as he was.

"I was getting bored of that station, hope you don't mind if I change it." Dutch felt himself grin, before he responded.

"No the DJ wasn't playing anything good anyways, maybe something better will be on next time. What do you think Benny Boy?" A short laugh came from Benny.

"Maybe he'll play some Metallica next time huh?"

"Maybe Benny, but if we're gonna get out of here, we're going to have to ride the Lightning." It was more of a pun of a joke, but it kept the mood light when a small fleet of boats armed with killers and high calibre weapons was trying to kill you.

"Got it Boss, I'll keep an eye out for anything else. You just get us out of here in one piece."

"Will do Benny Boy." Said Dutch. Ironically enough it wasn't the eyes and ears of Black Lagoon that warned him of the approaching Danger, but the eagle eyes of Two Hands that did instead.

"Dutch we got a big problem." came Revys urgent voice over the headset. Dutch groaned internally.

"What is it Revy?"

"A fucking gunship is taking off from the deck of the Saint Joan." Dutch honestly had no idea how this could get any worse unless the entire American navy showed up to chip in, and help blow his boat out of the water. Right now he wouldn't be surprised if that did happen.

"Revy I want you to take that thing out ASAP. Can you do it?" Dutch's voice betrayed his anxiety, and concern. If that gunship was also part of Lei Pahns plan, they were as good as dead.

"No problem dutch, I got a rocket launcher this time around. That gunship is going to be fucking scrap in right away." Revy clicked off her headset, and took careful aim at the gunship, that had just reached a hover above the ship.

"Sayonara Motherfucker." With that, she pulled the trigger, and the rocket leapt from the tube, and flew straight at the helicopter for a kill shot. Revy still had her killer grin on her face. This had been too easy. She watched the rockets quick progression, towards the gunship.

When Morrigan had woken up this morning, the last thing she had expected to happen was to be strapped into a hind, a gun in her hands once more. Well that wasn't really entirely true. The last thing she had expected to happen was to get a surprise date with Mel Gibson, and get married after a whirlwind romance. That hadn't happened, but a girl could still dream. The hind had jumped into the air without warning, almost causing her to lose her footing.

"Shit," she cursed. The least the bloody idiot flying this thing could do was give her some warning before taking off. She could have thumbed the firing studs, and killed someone by mistake. That was why you talked to your crew, so accidents like that didn't happen. Morrigan looked at the machine gun she would be wielding, and its twin on the other side. She didn't know the make of the machine gun, but it was definitely Russian. Just like the pilot, despite his accent. Most people wouldn't be able to detect it, but he was a little too rough in pronunciation, a little too heavy with the R's. For someone from the Emerald Isle or the UK it was preposterously easy to detect. Only some dumb yank wouldn't be able to figure it out. She was about to give the pilot a piece of her mind, when she saw a flash in her periphery. She leaned out the hatch a little, and saw a rocket flying towards them. She felt her adrenaline go into overdrive, as she tried to raise the pilot, who as of yet had not done anything to evade. She yelled frantically into the headset.

"There's a missile incom-." she never got to finish her warning, as the hind flipped over on its side, then upside down over the edge of the ship. Morrigan saw the missile fly past the hind, and overshoot harmlessly into the sea. She began screaming in earnest, when she was only hanging by the harness falling into the sea. If she hadn't put on the harness, she would have already been minced by the rotor blades, though it was moot now as she was going to go for one last swim. Her vision switched from the ocean out the open doorway to the floor as the hind flipped yet again, and began flying horizontally across the water arcing around the Saint Joan, kicking up sea spray from the down wash.

Morrigans feet hit the metal floor first, but they didn't catch her. Her butt was spared a meeting with the floor by the harness she was wearing. She sat suspended a foot from the ground, getting pulled to the opposite side of the hind, as its direction of travel. After a moment she shakily got to her feet, just as the hind open fired and destroyed a boat in the water. The heavy rounds struck it on the side raising the side of the boat out of the water, before hitting something vital, exploding the boat in an orange fireball. Morrigans vision was obscured as the hind roared over the destroyed boat, and through the smoke cloud. The boat had been an old PT boat with a few HMGs on board. Morrigan grabbed her machine gun again, and began firing at another boat. Her first burst went wide, hitting in front of the boat. She had led it too much, the years off duty had dulled her aim. She sighted more carefully, and squeezed out a second long burst. The rounds stitched up the side of the boat, killing one of it's occupants and wounding another.

"Hell yeah!" exclaimed Morrigan in triumph. She sighted in for another burst, but the gunship rolled violently, as another rocket flew past, and then spun around as yet another rocket flew past. By now streams of tracers were flying past them in torrents thrown up by the small pirate armada. The weapons on the hind roared again, and spelled the end for yet another boat. This one was a heavier torpedo boat, and it began to sink, after the hind tore great stretches of its hull out. Morrigan fired at anything moving on its deck, and saw a couple of figures twist and fall as the rounds found their mark. She switched to the gun on the right side, but had to hang in space as the hind did another sharp turn causing her to lose her footing. She landed solidly this time on the balls of her feat. Her instincts were coming back to her.

She had been a Royal Marine, and had served in the Falkland Islands, and on several peace keeping missions. She was qualified on a variety of weapons the light machine gun, and tactics among them. Although she wasn't qualified to do this from a helicopter, she was still managing. She had been seventeen in the Falklands, finishing her high schooling in the forces. Now she was twenty eight going on twenty nine, and serving on a freighter on the other end of the world. Yet here she was plying her skills, yet again.

Morrigan sighted down the sights, and lined up another boat. She fired a long protracted burst, and filled it full of holes. The hind went into a snap roll, forcing her to hang on for dear life, and as it came out it found another victim. This one looked like an old coast guard cutter with a few machine guns on it. It quickly met its end. Morrigan was surprised at the accuracy, and skill of the pilot. The hind didn't seem to be a manoeuvrable helicopter, but he was practically making it dance through the air. Despite the amount of firepower coming in at them nothing had so much as touched them. Morrigan had to hand on as the hind went vertical, and started climbing rapidly, then flipped over and rolled, causing her to spin around in her harness. She saw a missile streak past, then turn and come back around. She felt her blood go cold, a stinger. The hind dove towards the water, and the force of the G's as well as being in the harness made her feel weightless. Just before impact, the hind pulled up, and the missile impacted on the water throwing up a pillar of water in its wake. Morrigans respect for the pilot, just increased. Then a thought struck her. Why the fuck wasn't he using flares? She knew he had them. Realization dawned on her.

"That showboating dick!" She yelled to herself in rage. "He almost got us killed, so he could prove he can avoid missiles without decoys." Morrigan resolved to punch him in the face after they landed. She grabbed control of the machine gun again, and fired another long burst out of it, and managed to pluck another pirate off of a boat. There wasn't many left now, and with an explosion signalling the end of another, it was just mop up now. The once pristine blue sky was now filling with choking black smoke, that made it hard for Morrigan to breath when they flew through it. The gulls didn't circle anymore, they had flown away as soon as the fighting had begun. The water didn't sparkle, and from all the oil fires it appeared to be an ocean of flame. The smell of burnt flesh, and expended munitions was thick in the air. Morrigan rubbed one of her arms. They were feeling tingly from all the vibrations that had gone through them from firing the machine guns for so long. Only a few more left now.

The last few boats died running, and Morrigans left machine gun ran dry on the cleanup. The last boat appeared to be a luxury boat, with a few machine guns added on afterwards. It broke apart under the fire from the hind.

All the boats were gone, but the hind turned, and began heading further out to sea. Morrigan decided to use her headset, and talk to the pilot.

"What are you doing? We got all the pirate boats, so lets head back to the Saint Joan. We're done out here." She waited, but the pilot wasn't answering. "Are you there? I said we got them all, where are you going?" A voice answered her, but it seemed to be only half paying attention to her, like the other half was focused on something else.

"There's one fleeing back towards Taiwan. I don't intend to let it get away." The voice was devoid of any emotion. "I'm low on ammo up here, how much do you have back there?"

"Ummm, I got about half a machine gun full on the right side. So if you need me to hit anything, the ship will have to be on your right side."

"Affirmative, prepare to engage hostiles. How do you read me?"

"Five by five, let's go and hunt some pirates." responded Morrigan, falling back into old habits.

"Copy that, hang on." With that they descended after the final ship.

Rock watched in morbid fascination, as the gunship ripped apart Lei Pahns little armada. Nothing even touched it as it went after them, and it avoided everything like it was only a mild annoyance. Most of the fleet was a burning wreck on the horizon now, so he breathed a sigh of relief. With every passing second they were putting more and more distance between them, and it.

"Hah, ha, ha, huh, ha, ha!" Rock looked over, and saw Revy laughing madly. "Those dumb fucks got ripped a new asshole. Guess they won't be collecting their pay either now huh?" Revy finished her laughing, and calmed down a bit. "So what do think Rock? If that's not karma, I don't know what is."

"Well", said Rock. "If this was all based on karma, then something would have to happen to us too. After all, we shot a rocket at someone unprovoked so for there to be karma something bad has to happen to us too." Rock finished bracing for Revy to yell at him again. Instead she just gave a regular response and shrugged.

"I guess so, but karma doesn't always balance out and we're fairly far away already so we should be fine. Besides." hefting her RPG as she spoke, "I've got all the karma I need right here." She finished with a wolfish grin on her face. She always seemed to be grinning when fighting.

Rock leaned against one of the torpedo tubes and looked up into the sky. He was seeing spots, so he rubbed his eyes. Yet no matter how much he did it, one spot just wouldn't go away. If anything it was starting to get bigger. It looked familiar, kind of like... Rocks eyes widened in understanding. It looked just like the silhouette of the gunship that EO had used.

"Revy we have a problem!"

"What is it Rock? This had better be important." Revy still didn't seem to fully trust him since that he was new.

"The gunships still coming after us." said rock pointing in the direction of the rapidly approaching gunship. His voice had reached a higher pitch in his fear.

"Ahh shit." said Revy. She brought her hand up to her ear, and keyed the headset to talk to Dutch.

"Dutch hope you're ready for round two, because that gunship is coming to play."

"I'm ready Revy, but this time around why don't you give out friend a warm welcome?"

"I'll do more than that Dutch. I'll throw them a full fucking party complete with fireworks." Revy wasn't boasting anymore, she was getting deadly serious. It scared Rock more than her being loud and boisterous. She went into a kneeling position, and sighted down the length of the RPG. She began speaking, but she wasn't speaking to him or Dutch anymore, she was speaking to herself.

"This little piggy might have gone to market." She paused, and waited until the hind was uncomfortably close.

"Revy shoot it already!" Revy wasn't listening to his frantic pleas. She was still staring at the fast approaching gunship.

"But this little piggy isn't going home." With that the rocket screamed out towards the helicopter. Rock threw up his arms, as the back blast ripped at his clothes. The smoke, and exhaust from the spent rocket mixed with the sea spray going past the ship, and it caused Rock to sputter.

Revy just watched the progress of the rocket, and growled when the gunship rolled out of the way, and came at them at wave top level. A spray of water was coming out the backside of hind, kicked up by the downwash. Then the front of the hind lit up like a Christmas tree, as it started firing. The bright tracers homed in on the Black Lagoon Rock and Revy dove for cover, and the heavier 23mm cannons tore great chunks out of the deck, while the .50 cal rounds put holes the size of baseballs in the deck. The rounds striking the dead were impossibly loud. It made Rocks ears ring, and the Lagoon quiver as if in pain. The hind fired a second burst, but Dutch turned the boat hard to starboard, and the rounds hit into the surf left in the wake of the Black Lagoon. The Lagoon was almost parallel

Rock was thrown against the far railing by the sudden sharp turn, and ripped his pants sliding across the holed and apparently sharp deck. Revy stood her ground, and hefted a reloaded RPG to her shoulder, and fired again. She wasn't yelling anymore, and her eyes were riveted on the approaching gunship. The blast of smoke, washed over the deck as another rocket went to greet the hind. It had as much luck as the first, with the gunship evading it with contemptuous ease. Revy growled in annoyance and frustration.

It fired another burst, but Dutch pulled back on the throttle causing the rounds to strike in front of the Black lagoon, throwing up more geysers, that washed over the Lagoon as it accelerated again to avoid another burst, drenching Rock and Revy in water.

"Great job Dutch, that dumb shit can't even touch us!" Revy was cut short as another burst tore out a portion of the cabin roof. The twisted metal spun away into the ocean and Rock was cowering again. The hind roared overhead, seeming to laugh at the predicament of it's prey. It cast a shadow over the Lagoon as its armoured form blotted out the sun for a moment. Once it was past them, it did a slow turn to come back at them. It had all the time in the world, while theirs was running out.

Artyom had enough rounds left for about one more short burst. He was confident that it would be enough to blow the boat out of the water. So far he was impressed with the seamanship that this boat was showing. He should have blown it out of the water already, but the captain seemed to know where the rounds were coming, and he could handle his ship like an extension of himself. Artyom gave him silent approval. He was far better than the other pirate boats, but it wouldn't matter for much longer. Artyom was going in for a kill shot, and he knew exactly where he wanted to put his last few rounds. He eyed the torpedoes on the deck of the ship. This was going to be a nice little explosion. He grinned to himself, before going in for the kill. The air screamed past the hind, as he dove towards the last ship. This wouldn't take long at all.

Revy saw the gunship come back for another run. She only had one rocket left so she had to make it count. Revy keyed her mike. "Dutch he's coming in for another run. Starboard side."

"I see him Revy, you just make sure to stick a rocket up his ass when he flies over again."

"No problem, this bastards been lucky so far, but he can't stay alive when facing the great Revy for long."

"Just don't miss okay? I like my ship in one piece and not on the bottom of the ocean."

Revy grunted in annoyance. "You just focus on driving the boat. You can let me focus on killing this dipshit asshole."

"Well here he comes Revy, so don't miss."

"Oh don't worry Dutch I won't." She sighted down the RPG one last time. She didn't know who this fucker was, but he was going to die one way or another. He had made her look like some kind of rookie gunman who couldn't hit shit. She looked over at Rock one final time. What she saw made her lose concentration, and fill with anger at his repeated stupidity.

"ROCK!" her yelling caused him to jump, and look at her. From under the torpedo tube.

"Yeah, what is it Revy?" He sounded like he was going to piss himself. It made her anger all the greater.

"YOU'RE HIDING UNDER THE TORPEDOES AGAIN YOU DUMB SHIT!" Rock looked at where he was, and with a cry of surprise he scampered out from under it.

"Honestly Rock, if you were any dumber, I'd have you wear a fucking helmet just so you wouldn't hurt yourself. Ya fuckin retard." Her anger had subsided, but she was still simmering.

"Ummm Revy?" he asked timidly.

"WHAT!" exploded Revy, she was getting tired of his bullshit, and stupidity.

"The gunship is right there." Surprise registered on Revy's face, before she turned around, and saw the hind looming menacingly over them. Dutch put them in a hard turn to port, shielding Rock and Revy from the oncoming fusillade. Revy crushed Rock into the railing of the boat, and the RPG came too.

The hinds rounds streaked over the Black Lagoon, and for a second Revy thought that he had missed. Then the heavy cannon rounds struck the torpedo tube on the starboard side. She braced for an explosion.

With a roar the hind flew over, and the Lagoon levelled out. Revy looked at the torpedo tubes, saw that a large chunk was missing. She could see the inside of it. It was empty. Revy laughed. They had used the torpedoes to take down the other gunship in the canal and hadn't put new ones in yet.

"Take that you fucker!" shouted Revy extending her middle finger, towards the retreating hind. She still had a rocket, and now the asshole flying the gunship couldn't get a one shot kill anymore. He was probably running low on ammo too since that he had wrecked Lei Pahns fleet in the water. Revy picked up the RPG, and checked it. It was ready to rock and roll. Switching her attention to Rock she noticed that he was still on the deck not moving. "Wonder if he's dead?" thought Revy aloud.

"No I'm still alive," said Rock painfully getting to his feet, and rubbing his back. He looked at Revy. "Did we get it?" asked Rock hopefully.

"No," said Revy, "and it looks like he's coming back for more." Rock looked at the hind, and saw it approaching, but it wasn't firing. When it got close, it turned sideways, and a machine gunner in the doorway started firing. The rounds stitched a path across the back of the ship, and Rock ran.

Revy kneeled down, and lined up a kill shot, heedless of the rounds searching for the range to make her just a memory. "This time you're dead!" with that Revy launched her rocket at the chasing gunship, and it streaked straight for the machine gunner.

Artyom was annoyed. The torpedo tubes had been empty, and now he was out of ammo. He could no longer sink the last ship which irritated him to no end. He wracked his brain for what he could do, and then he remembered that the Irish woman in the back still had some rounds left. He might not be able to sink the ship, but he could still kill some of the crew.

"You still got ammo back there?"

"Yes I have a few belts left to play with." answered a feminine voice from the head set.

"Alright, I'm going to come up behind them, and I want you to clear the deck."

"No problem, just give me some targets to shoot at and I'll give you some corpses. By the way, I'm Morrigan."

"Artyom."

"Well Artyom, let's go kill us some pirates." With that, the hind turned and headed back towards the fleeing pirate boat.

Morrigan wiped sweat from her forehead, and shivered slightly. With only her undershirt on she was getting cold. It was basically just a muscle shirt that she had worn underneath her tunic. She had started perspiring during the fight, and now the wind buffeting against her through the open doorway was making her fairly cold. She checked the load one final time to check that it wouldn't jam. She watched the water pass by rapidly underneath the hind, and then she felt the hind shift and turn, bringing the boat into view. She opened fire on the ship guiding the stream of hot lead where she wanted it. She saw a man in what appeared to be a dress shirt and tie try to run. She let him go in favour of trying the hit the tart with the RPG. She just couldn't seem to find the range, and the boat was starting to weave making her shots more difficult. Then with a burst of flame, the rocket was launched straight at her.

Morrigans eyes widened in fear, and her heart began to go into overdrive. She let go of the machine gun, and pushed herself further back into the crew compartment. The rocket continued its flight, and reached the hind. Then went into it. Time seemed to slow, as Morrigan saw the missile enter the open doorway. She saw every single detail. The rocket spinning slowly, bathed in the fiery light of its engine. The stabilizing fins outstretched as if reaching out to her to pull her into its fiery whole thing was happening only just a few feet from her. With a whoosh, time went back to normal and the rocket went out through the other side through the other open doorway. Morrigan fell weakly, and was caught by the harness. She was breathing heavily, still scared out of her mind.

Her blood thundered in her ears, her senses were unnaturally sharp, and everything seemed to clear. So sure. Her muscles were tensed, coiled like a spring ready to react instantly, to tear something apart or get her to safety. Morrigan was jittery from the rush of combat. She loved it. With a burst of energy she got back up, and manned the machine gun again.

"You alright back there?" Artyoms voice came through the full headset that Morrigan was wearing.

"Just fine love, had a bit of a close shave with a rocket but I'm fine now."

"Are you able to keep fighting, or do you want to head back to the Saint Joan?"

"I'm great, just bring us around to the bow of the ship, and I'll give them a little farewell gift." Morrigan felt the soldier in her waking up. It had stirred during the fighting, but now it was fully awake. She didn't want to just fight enough to protect herself, she wanted to close with and utterly destroy the enemy. To break their bones beneath her boots, and crush them completely. It was what she was trained to do, and Royal Marines never quit or compromised.

"Copy that, once you unload the rest of what you've got we'll head back." Artyom was surprised the fire, and thinking that this Morrigan was showing. To know where she wanted to attack from, and want to keep fighting after such a close encounter with death showed amazing bravery and fortitude. He had known soldiers to break down in fighting, or lose the will to continue after a close brush with death. Morrigan not only got over it, but she sounded more energized than before now. If she wasn't too attached to her shipping job, Artyom would give her a job in an instant. "Are you ready for this?"

"Love, I was born for this." Morrigans voice was brimming with confidence. Artyom definitely wanted her on his payroll.

"Then hang on." With that Artyom accelerated to the front of the boat, only slowing to make a throat slitting gesture to the woman who looked like a tramp. She shot at him with a handgun which bounced off the cockpit, and Morrigan shot at her with a machine gun which made her have to run for cover unless she wanted anymore orifices. With that, Artyom brought the hind in front of the boat, and Morrigan thumbed the firing studs. It burst the glass inwards and she swept the machine gun from right to left demolishing the interior of the Cabin. When Morrigan reported that she was out of ammunition, Artyom rocked the hind in farewell, and left. He headed back to the Saint Joan, quite pleased with himself.

Morrigan felt tired with the end of combat, and shut the doors to keep out the chill wind. She sagged in the harness, and let it support her weight. It felt so nice to just sit and sway. The sound of the engine was muffled by the doors and her headphones. She felt her eyes get heavy, and slowly they slid closed over her aquamarine eyes. She was sound asleep by the time they made it back to the Saint Joan.

Dutch picked himself off the floor of the cabin. Broken plexiglass littered the floor, and what was left in the frame was only a few badly cracked shards of glass. The glass tinkled as it fell off of him, as he stood up. He looked around, and lit a cigarette. All things considered it could have been much worse. He went and banged on Benny's hatch. The Lagoon had already stopped, so there was no need to pilot the boat anymore. With a squeak the hatch opened, and Bennys head popped out.

"You still alive Benny?"

"Surprisingly yes, though I think I'll take the bus next time. Lightnings a little too rough for me." With that Benny fell back into his chair, down the hatch.

"Just hold down the fort for now Benny, I'm going to check on Rock and Revy."

"Will do." said Benny weakly from his communication hatch. In all respects they had been quite lucky. If that gunship would've had more ammo or worse rockets, they would all be dead right about now. Lei Pahn and his men had taken the hits for them, so it looked like it was a good thing he had betrayed them. Better to be out some money than dead.

Dutch had a new skylight in the cabin thanks to their new found friend, and streams of light came through it, and the numerous smaller holes in the roof. Dutch had to kick the door to get it to open and it opened with a screech. He opened the door, and found a raving Revy.

"This is such bullshit! I hit that helicopter, I fucking saw it!" she was practically frothing at the mouth now. "How is it even possible for a rocket to go through it like that and not hit anything?" She was waving her Beretta's around much to rocks dismay who Revy was venting to. "If I see that Aviator wearing fuck, or his little skank, I'm gonna put a bullet through their fucking heads, and piss on their graves.

Well thought Dutch, I better defuse the Revy bomb before she goes nuclear and blows us all up. He still had the one thing which would console her though.

"You and Rock both alright Revy?" His tone was concerned. Unlike some other captains, he actually cared for his crew.

"I'm fine," said Rock eager to talk to someone other than the homicidal woman in front of him. Dutch could sympathize.

"Yeah the little shit didn't even help shoot back at the goddamned gunship." Said Revy clearly annoyed not so much at the fact that Rock didn't shoot back, but more so at the fact she had failed to kill it.

"I told you Revy I don't use guns! I don't want to use them, and I won't ever use one!" Rock was showing some backbone, and it seemed to surprise Revy. Before the situation got out of hand.

"Once we get back to port, we're gonna have to make some emergency repairs to the boat. After that we'll make sure everything's stowed away properly, and get ourselves treated. Rock and Revy looked down at themselves, and saw that they were covered with an assortment of scratches and bruises.

"Dutch I want that bastard dead." Revy was deadly serious, and Dutch knew that she wouldn't stop until it was off her mind, or that man was dead.

"I know Revy, but after we're done, I'll take us out to the Yellow Flag to drown our sorrows." To her credit, Revy was actually surprised.

"But it's going to cost a lot to fix the boat. You sure we can afford it?"

"Let me worry about the money Revy, for now I think that we just need a night to kick back and relax."

"Sounds good to me Dutch." said Revy, her mood brightening. She tossed the RPG to Rock, and began walking back into the cabin. "Try not to screw that up Rock." With that she went to find a beer.

"Well Rock," said Dutch. "We should make it back in time for lunch. Hope you're hungry."

"Don't know if I'll be able to eat anything after this."

"Just give it a bit," said Dutch reassuringly. "You'll be plenty hungry once we get back to port."

"I hope so Dutch, I hope so." What Rock was really hoping for, was for the violence to be over for the day. It was exhilarating, but he was full up for the day. He was looking forward to a quiet night of drinking.

The hind touched down lightly on the crew deck, and Artyoms team and crewmen swarmed around it.

Morrigan woke when the hind touched down, and began rubbing the sleep from her eyes then unhooked her harness. Her legs felt rubbery, but she opened the door, and jumped out anyways. The sun was still high in the sky, and it could hardly be noon. The ship was much the same, except now most of the crew was armed with assault rifles. Her shirt felt harder with dried sweat, but the South China sun was doing a good job of keeping her warm. The crew initially pressed in around her to ask questions, which she answered to the best of her ability then everyone's attention was taken away, when a survivor was spotted off the starboard side, closest to them. The man was clinging to a broken piece of a ship, and was bleeding.

The captain had come off of the bridge, and had come to see why a gunship had been on his ship, but was distracted by the man in the water.

"Get a line out to him, and pull him up!" the crew of the Saint Joan hurried to obey. A line was thrown over the side, but he was still a ways from it.

"He's not going to make it," said a big man with an AK slung over his shoulder. "The sharks will get him first." Morrigan scanned the water, and saw the tell tale fins of sharks closing in on the man. The man was acting like a beacon to the sharks. His blood like a torch in the black. He wasn't going to make it to the ship. He was going to die very painfully.

"Bloody awful way to go," said Artyom leaning against the side of the hind. He had removed his balaclava, but his reflective aviators were still over his eyes. His face was impassive, uncaring. The mechanic in the two piece simply refused to look, and the larger man put a comforting hand on her shoulder. The doctor that was with Artyom was preparing a trauma kit for the man, should he make it aboard. Morrigan knew he wouldn't. The elderly man who looked like he was from the 30's looked on with something akin to mild interest.

"Come on, swim. Swim to the life preserver. We'll pull you in!" Captain Mitchell was screaming for all he was worth, but all the man in the water did was raise his head weakly. He barely had the strength to hand onto the debris, much less swim to the life preserver. Morrigan knew what she had to do. With long strides, she went up to a crewman with a rifle. Patterson if she remembered correctly. She grabbed the rifle from his hands, a look of surprise on his face.

She went to the railing, and brought the sights to bear on the man in the water. Her eye in perfect line, and his head filling the sights. She hesitated. Could she really do this? When you fought in the heat of battle, it was kill or be killed. You had a gun and so did your adversary. This though. This felt like murder. The man was defenceless, he had lost. In battle it was justified. Was this?

"Crewman McCarthy, put that rifle down NOW!" The captain was giving her an order, and she almost followed it. "I said put it down now! We're taking him aboard, we've defended ourselves enough. We don't need to kill anyone else." The captain was fair to them and he was good at his job, but he was out of depth in this situation. Maybe he was right though, maybe she should put the rifle down. Maybe he still could be saved. The cries of an unseen man in intense pain, only to be cut off abruptly made up her mind for her. With a few long breaths, she steadied the rifle, and then held it for a second to line up the shot. The man looked up. "I gave you an ord-" "CRACK!" The single shot split the air, and pitched the man clinging to the debris off with a red spray coming out of the back of his head. The sharks were on his corpse in moments. A single spent shell fell glittering into the water end over end, until it entered with a soft plop. Morrigan put the rifle down, and felt her eyes well up with tears. She put all her effort into controlling herself.

Why was she so upset? She had killed before, had done it just moments ago. There shouldn't have been a difference, but there was. The difference to her was that the man was no longer a threat. He wasn't trying to hurt her, or anyone else. She had done this as a mercy killing, but she still felt bad about it. The others had just been reaction, kill or be killed. Reflex and training taking over. This one had been her decision, her call. She had consciously made up her mind to kill him. His blood was on her hands. She had never killed except on orders. She enjoyed the rush of combat, but if she was forced to look at someone, outside the fires of war and point a gun at them. Outside any threat of danger. She wouldn't be able to do it. She wasn't a murderer. She was a soldier.

Captain Mitchell's turned on her in a rage. He was easily a half foot taller than her five foot eight frame. He grabbed her roughly by the shirt, and lifted her up, and brought his face close to hers.

"WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO!" YOU JUST KILLED A MAN IN COLD BLOOD. THERE WAS NO REASON FOR THAT NO REASON AT ALL!"

"I," began Morrigan weakly still trying to control her emotions.

"What you did was murder!" The captain lowered his tone to a level more bearable as he got better control of his emotions, but he didn't stop his verbal assault. "When we get back to port, you're going to jail for this you hear me!"

"If you would just let me explain." began Morrigan, tears beginning to break free.

"There is no explaining to be done, that was murder, you are a murderer!" Something inside Morrigan broke free at those words. Her eyes hardened, and with all the strength she could muster through training, and hard physical labour she punched the captain in the face.

Mitchells staggered back, blood flowing down his face. He threw a punch of his own at Morrigan, but she ducked slightly and caught the arm over her shoulder. She leveraged his outstretched arm, and threw him to the ground. Before he had time to get up Morrigan rammed her knee into his solar plexus, winding him and pinning him to the deck. Her fist was pulled back ready to fall.

"Now you listen to me!" growled Morrigan as she pulled at the front of his dress shirt bringing his face inches from hers. "First of all I am a SOLDIER, not a murderer. Second, did you see the sharks? Did you bloody well see them? Because I did, and that man wasn't going to make it the boat, I knew it and so did you. But you needed to appease your sense of morality, of justice." Morrigan paused for breath before continuing, her marine coloured eyes denoting all the fury of the high seas. "I spared that man from being ripped to shreds by sharks. The very same man who was going to rob you, and hold you for ransom. Maybe kill a few of you to make an example to show what happens if you don't comply. I had to hunt men like him once upon a time, I know exactly what they are capable of. So before you dare judge me, you had better understand that this isn't your world out here. You don't know what the world is really like." Morrigan leaned closer to the man, so their noses were almost touching. "And lastly, I'm done with you and your fucking ship." Having said what she needed too, she slammed him back down on the deck, and stalked off to where Artyom and the rest of his team were, throwing everything in on the hope that he would take her in. Artyom regarded her with open respect.

"Miss McCarthy would you be interested in an employment opportunity in Cossack Support?" Artyom held his hand out.

Morrigan shook his hand. It was warm, and slightly rough. "I would be very interested in acquiring employment with Cossack Support."

"Excellent," Said Artyom cheerfully. "Now Mr. Remzi, if you would be so kind as to retrieve our guns from our hosts I would very much appreciate it. The large man began walking towards the group of armed sailors.

"Ughh finally done," said Rock sitting back. They had spent the rest of the day patching the Lagoon. It wasn't going to sink now if someone looked at it funny. Now it was time to kick back, and down a few drinks courtesy of Dutch. A blaring horn made him look towards the dock. Dutch, Benny, and Revy were all in the car already. Revy was driving, and honking the horn. Her head was out the window, and she was yelling at him.

"Rock get your ass in here, I'm not waiting for your slow ass, and I'm not missing drinking waiting. Rock threw down the towel he had been drying his hands with, and ran towards the car. Only for it to pull ahead as he tried to grab the door handle. Revy was smiling now.

"Hey stop that," said Rock in vain. He tried to get in a few more times, but Revy kept pulling ahead. Eventually she let him in.

"Took you long enough," said Revy with a small smile on her face. She started driving down the road.

"Yeah whatever," said Rock more to himself than anyone else. Revy slammed on the brakes, causing the car to screech to a halt.

"IS THAT FUCKING ATTITUDE ROCK! Cause if it is you're going to regret it 9mm worth."

"No, no, it's not I'm sorry!" said Rock shielding himself with his arms.

"Damn right you are," said Revy driving down the Road again. "Pussy."

After the Saint Joan made Port, Jacques kept Angelika, and Beznik behind to help with the unloading, while Brent went to go scope out the Warehouse/hangar they would be using to support their business to find the best place to set up his medical office. Sometimes having a PhD had it's advantages.

Artyom was taking Morrigan to a bar for the night to discuss her future employment in Cossack industries. He had to promise several games of monopoly to Angelika, and more funds for exotic guns to Beznik to let him go off with Morrigan. Jacques only requested that he find him a "gentlemen's" club for him to visit.

Artyom was wearing a black leather jacket, with a navy blue shirt underneath, blue jeans, and combat boots. His Pernach was nestled safely in a shoulder rig on his left shoulder. Morrigan was wearing some clothes of hers that she had on the ship for shore leave. Well now, it appeared she was on permanent shore leave. The captain had tried to talk to her again, but the clicking of several safeties had been more than enough warning. No one messed with Artyoms team. She was wearing a pair of cargo shorts, and a light yellow smiley face tee-shirt, with running shoes, and a dark blue windbreaker over top, undone.

Artyom called a cab, and he made small talk with Morrigan on the way to a bar that a dock worker had suggested. The Yellow Flag. Morrigan had been a Royal Marine from 82 up until the Bosnian Peace keeping operation. She was indeed Irish. Northern Irish to be precise. Her dad had been a Royal Marine, and she had followed in his footsteps. She was qualified, and had mustered out at the rank of sergeant. She held Dual citizenship of both Ireland, and England. She also had a nice bum, in Artyom's opinion.

The neon lights shone off the car as they drove down main street. Artyom and Morrigan just stared. Most cities had their crime districts, and crimes were committed regularly, but this was just so... open. There were drug deals on the street corners, and every kind of illegal thing was being sold.

"What kind of city is this?" asked Morrigan, half in wonder, half in disgust.

"One in which we will be living for a while." answered Artyom. Morrigan leaned back in her, her head going over the cushion, and she closed her eyes. Aryom tried not to stare at her out thrust chest. He really did. Well at least he knew why the face on the shirt was smiling.

"I can see you staring." said Morrigan not opening her eyes. Artyom looked away quickly.

"I wasn't staring at your chest." he said quickly.

"Oh my mistake," said Morrigan. Artyom breathed a small sigh of relief. "But I never said you were staring at my chest did I?"

The rest of the ride was uneventful, and they arrived at the bar in good time. Artyom paid the cab driver, and walked into the bar with Morrigan.

The bars air was thick with smoke, and most of the tables were full, except for a row of stools at the counter, one table was only half full. Artyom and Morrigan took seats at the bar.

"Um excuse me?" asked Morrigan to the barkeep. He was a middle aged Asian man with a thin moustache, and still completely dark hair. He turned to regard them, from reading his newspaper.

"Yeah what can I do for you?" he hadn't gotten up for his chair, and was regarding them with the tired service, that someone gives after years at a thankless job.

"I would like a pint please, Guinness if you have it."

"Whatever's on tap that you got," said Artyom. He quickly got their drinks together, and served them.

"Now don't bother me, unless you need another, or are going to tip." With that he turned back to his newspaper.

His service wasn't that good, but his drink was excellent. Artyom was having fun, and he outlined to Morrigan what she would be doing in Cossack Support, now that she was hired on. She would ask questions occasionally, and she insisted that Artyom tip the barkeep, who later became known as Bao, for the drinks. She hadn't had a pint that good since Ireland apparently. He liked her for that. The night would have ended wonderfully if not for one thing. The crew of the pirate boat from earlier took a seat directly next to them, and they started drinking. The woman gunman would have been laughable, if not for the pair of custom Beretta's under her shoulders. They took the humour away. Bao noticed their agitation, and motioned for the back door. They hadn't seen his face, and Morrigan was turned away, hidden behind him. They should be fine. Artyom saw his reflection in the mirror. He also saw the pair of mirrored aviators hanging from his collar. The woman to his side noticed it too. * Fuck me, *. said Artyom quietly.

"Well I guess wishes do come true," a pistol was soon pressed against his forehead. "And I know exactly what my next one is going to be." She grinned in victory.

AN: Well I think that this was my best chapter yet. By the way I've only seen up to episode twelve in dubbed, and I need to find another source. So I should be able to crank out about oh say 3 more chapters before I can't follow the plot anymore. If I have to I'll watch subbed, but I really don't want to. Also what do you guys think of my Portrayal of the Lagoon crew? I think I got Dutch and Benny right, but did I make Rock too much of a bitch, or Revy too angry? Also I think Morrigan is my new favourite character. Thanks to Chaotic Crazy for the name. Reviews are always appreciated, and I am gone next weekend, so I will TRY and get another chapter out by the end of next week, because I'm gone that weekend too I think. But I think a 10000 plus chapter is pretty decent to wait only a week for. Also I can't wait to start writing my warhammer fic, so this one might come out pretty fast. I promised I'd finish this one first, and I will. Quality will not suffer. Thanks for reading guys.


	6. Birds of a feather flock together

**Chapter 6 Birds of a feather Flock Together**

**AN:** Quick side note, I watched the Hansel and Gretel arc and it made me feel like a pedo. Seriously I felt kind of sick. Violence and crime are one thing, but the whole thing with the kids. I can handle the kids getting shot it happens, but the weird sex thing was too much. I'm thankful they didn't show it, but still. Well I've done my rant, still like the series, so on with the story!

There are few things in life that make your next choice in life very clear. Sometimes people turn to religion to give guidance in their time of need and to make the path clear. Others turn to family and friends to get the guidance and advice to achieve an understanding. Others just have a deep seated, and unshakable faith that the path that they have chosen and the road ahead is always well lit for them. The one thing all these have in common is that it makes the situations in life very clear. A gun to the head does the same thing.

At this time Artyom had a custom 9mm Beretta 92 pressed against his forehead. If he would have studied the gun, he would have found it to be a gleaming stainless steel work of art with mother of pearl hand grips. He would have seen the crossed swords and skulls that were delicately crafted on, as well as the fact that the barrel was extended an extra inch to give the pistol more accuracy, range, and power. If he could have examined it further still he would have found that the trigger had been modified to require less pull to fire and with internal recoil suppressors. The safety to be ambidextrous, the sights masterfully fine tuned, and the inside so clean it gleamed. Artyom saw none of this, nor did he appreciate the find craftsmanship that had gone into this weapon. All he saw and felt was the cold metal of the barrel against his forehead, and a vengeful Chinese woman on the other end of the gun.

He could still talk himself out of this though he thought assuredly. All she had to go on was a pair on Mirrored aviators. They were expensive yes, but they weren't so rare that you couldn't find another for miles around. He had seen several variants of the model of glasses he wore around the bar, some knockoffs others the real McCoy. As long as she didn't see Morrigans face they could still talk their way out of this. Even if they did, they were in a gunship at the time. Things were chaotic in a fight and some people looked very similar to one another. Artyom himself had been mistaken for other people several times in his life. People were reasonable. People used words first, and guns later. Even if in Artyoms experience, talking usually broke down into gunfights. Ceasefires never seemed to last. He put on his best smile.

"Miss there must be some mistake," began Artyom trying his best to play the part of someone caught in a very serious misunderstanding. Also trying to sound innocent. That helped too. "I arrived in town yesterday, and was just taking my girlfriend for a pint at the pub." Artyom decided to play up his English accent. "You see we're vacationing in the Pacific and thou-"

"Shut the fuck up." said the woman in a conversational tone, however there was an unmistakable hint of malice in her words. Like a creature hiding just out of sight. Watching, waiting, searching for the moment to strike.

"But miss," tried Artyom again. His efforts were rewarded with the gun being cocked against his head. If only he could reach his Pernach. He couldn't make a move without getting a third eye and Morrigan didn't have a gun on her. Thankfully she was wisely choosing to stay behind Artyom playing the part of a scared young woman who had only wanted to see the world and had thought it fun to slum for a night. Only to realize how dangerous it really was and was wanting desperately to leave, but unable to. If one would have kept their eyes on her and watched her more carefully, they would have seen her discreetly take a corkscrew off the counter and hide it in the sleeve of her windbreaker when the confrontation began. They were more focused on Artyom and his sunglasses. Lucky for him.

"Shut it you bucktoothed fuck," said the Chinese woman in a belligerent tone. Artyom bristled at the insult. His teeth were fine. He hadn't even needed braces growing up and he brushed and flossed just like he was told. He didn't have buckteeth. "I don't buy for a second that you are some goddamned wide eyed tourist taking in the sights and taking pictures for your fucking scrapbook." She leaned in closer to Artyom getting very much so in his face. "I think you went for a little fucking celebration after shooting up some boats. Am I right? Well dickhead?"

"Miss I can assure you I-"

"I already said I don't buy your tourist shit!" The gun was pushed more forcefully into Artyoms forehead. The metal was beginning to warm from the contact with his skin. If she decided she didn't want to talk anymore the gun would become very warm indeed. "You want to know how I know?" she didn't give Artyom a chance to respond before continuing. "First on your many list of fuck ups is that tourists don't carry guns." Artyom resisted the urge to look at his shoulder where his Pernach was holstered under his coat. "Second," she continued. "Tourists don't come here. the police make sure they stay away so that the fat fuck of a police chief doesn't have to do paperwork. The woman who in Artyoms and he assumed Morrigans opinion, who looked like a hooker retreated to an arms distance, but still had her pistol firmly pressed against his forehead. "And do you want to know the most monumental of your fuck ups?" Artyom looked her straight in the eyes. "Tourists get scared when someone shoves a gun in their face." She had him there.

Some of the other patrons in the bar were watching on with interest. They wanted to see if the outsider would be the latest victim of the famous Two Hands. Bao looked like he was going to explode.

"REVY HOW MANY TIMES ARE YOU GONNA CAUSE SHIT IN MY BAR?" He was practically foaming at the mouth. "I just got this place put back together, and you are threatening PAYING customers!" Wait, this happens often? Thought Artyom.

"I pay for your rat piss!" said Revy indignantly.

"Yeah," said Bao. "And you cost me a fortune, because you make me have to renovate every three fucking months. Buildings aren't cheap." From there they descended into an arguing match, completely forgetting about Artyom, except for the gun still in his face. He couldn't fucking believe it. She was angry enough to kill him in a public place, yet she would stop to argue over if she was good for business or bad? Killing was a serious business and not to be taken lightly. Artyom had killed many times in his life. Almost always behind the controls of a hind. He thought he might have killed someone with his Pernach in running gun battles he had been a part of after a bad job, but he couldn't be sure.

He saw a large black man put his face in his palm in exasperation. "She does this every time." He let out a long sigh, and hunched over the counter. Light reflecting dully in his sunglasses. He was a large man and heavily muscled. He was way above Artyoms weight class, plus he had a large calibre revolver sitting in a holster on his hip. He would be a problem. There was also what appeared to be a young Asian business man, but Artyom recognized him from the boat. He looked somewhat shocked at the whole thing happening in front of him. He was way out of depth and Artyom had no idea how he was mixed up in this, or with this crew. He was even wearing dress pants, shirt, and had a blue tie on. He looked dressed for the office, not part of a pirate crew. He didn't have a gun that Artyom could see. He shouldn't be a threat. Shouldn't being the key word, Artyom had been surprised before.

The last member of the crew was a blonde man with glasses in a Hawaiian shirt. He didn't look shocked, but he also didn't look overly troubled at the confrontation. It wasn't likely he would take part in case it ever came to a fight. He actually looked kind of nerdy. He also didn't have a gun that Artyom could see either. He was talking with the Asian man, but Artyom couldn't make out their words over the shouting. What kind of pirate crew was this? All of Artyoms staff without exception at the very minimum excluding Jacques had at least a pistol on them at all times. Most of them carried rifles around when they worked. Or a shotgun in Angelikas case. She called it her boomstick. The only reason Morrigan didn't have one was because she had just joined, and hadn't picked out a gun yet. Tomorrow she would have any kind she wanted and Besnik would be almost giddy being able to display his vast array of guns and the anticipation of what they would pick.. Artyom liked to think positively. He liked to think he would be alive tomorrow. Artyom shifted the grip on his cane. Should he pull the blade out? He dismissed that thought, it would take too long and he would wind up with a bullet in his head.

The shouting match was reaching a crescendo, and Bao and the angry woman were practically trading spit they were shouting so close to each other. Artyom felt a light tap on his back. He glanced back out of the corner of his eye. Morrigan was the perpetrator, and nodded her head lightly in the direction of The screaming match. The steel of the corkscrew glinting menacingly, the edge just visible coming out of her cuff. Artyom looked at the scene in front of him. All eyes were on the argument in front of him, and the only other threat was looking at his drink. He gave the tiniest of nods to Morrigan and held out three fingers behind his back.

He retracted them slowly. One. He and Morrigan tensed their muscles. Two. Artyom felt the familiar anticipation of a fight building in him. Three. The corkscrew came fully into Morrigans hand, and he pushed the gun away from his forehead with his free hand. It went off and put a round in the ceiling causing dust to fall. Morrigan lunged forwards with almost superhuman speed the corkscrew held like a knife. With the sound of gunfire in the bar all hell seemed to break loose. It was like someone opened up the flood gates and all the pent up violence poured out.

The muscled man was up in an instant, drawing his heavy revolver. Morrigan got to him first. She knocked it to the side and thrust the corkscrew towards his head, but it was stopped at the last second by his arm. He grunted in pain.

"Bitch," he was clearly not happy with Morrigan. Blood flowed freely from the puncture wound in his arm. Morrigan ducked a retaliatory punch, but lost the corkscrew as it clattered away from the mans arm. She had a good enough grip to pull it out, but not to hold on.

"Dutch are you alright?" asked the blonde man behind him. The other patrons in the bar were all drawing guns in case the fight escalated to the point where they would get dragged into it as well. What the hell kind of bar was this? Why did EVERYONE have a gun? It was like being in the Congo all over again. The bad part of the Congo.

"Fucking great, you can pitch in anytime Benny Boy." He lashed out with a right hook, which Morrigan blocked. Artyom was surprised to say the least. She must be one tough cookie to go toe to toe with someone twice her size. A wince of pain that showed on her face told it had been more reflex to block, than conscious decision. Morrigan struck back with a kick to disarm the now named Dutch, and his revolver clattered across the floor. Her Jaw length hair flaring around her as she fought.

"I think me and Rock will sit this one out. Besides Looks like Revy's got her fight under control. We would probably just get in the way anyways." He finished rumour

Indeed the fight was going in Revy's favour. It had started out with her going for her second gun, but with both her hands occupied, Artyom had dropped his cane then put his weight and training into a right hook. He had an easy sixty pounds on her. Maybe a little less, it should have been a knockout hit. Should have been. Blood flew from her mouth and she fell back. About one step. She dug her foot into the ground arresting her backward momentum, and looked at him straight into his eyes. Her eyes were empty except for a burning hate. Her guns were held at the ready at her sides, held slightly out from her body. He didn't have time to draw his own gun. He would have to grapple, and with a gun in each hand he was pretty much fucked. Turns out he didn't need his guns. With a cry of rage she threw her guns on the bar, and rushed him.

He blocked what he could and got in a hit or two, but he just couldn't keep up with her. She was fast and she hit damned hard. Artyom's guard was starting to break from the constant pounding, but it wasn't like it was doing him much good. She hit him all over. Head, chest, stomach, he had even stopped a knee to the groin. If it would have connected the fight would have been over. It would have only ended it sooner though, not changed the outcome. Artyoms head was fuzzy from the pounding and after a doozy of a left hook he fell heavily against the bar. Artyom had heard them call her Revy. She was a good fighter getting in at least five hits to his one, but in his opinion was a complete bitch.

"You think you can just hit the great Revy and fucking walk away! You got another thing coming asshole!" she raged as she continued raining blows on Artyom. "The only way you're leaving here now is in a fuckin body bag!" Her gloves were becoming stained red, and blood was dribbling down Artyoms face, from a multitude of cuts courtesy of Revy's fists. Artyom wasn't resisting much now. He couldn't. Revy had worked herself into a frenzy and it didn't look like anything but every bone in Artyoms body being broken was going to stop that. Luckily his bones breaking didn't stop it, a stool did.

One of the cheap wooden stools descended rapidly and broke over Revy causing her to fall heavily to the ground. A hard breathing Morrigan on the other end. She had blood dribbling out the corner of her mouth, and looked quite ruffled to say the least. Her hair was tangled and her windbreaker was torn. A few spatters of blood on her smiley tea-shirt. Her opponent Dutch for the moment was incapacitated. Rock stood up when Revy's head became acquainted with the stool.

"Revy are you okay?" he started coming over concerned for her, but was stopped by Morrigan.

"You want some of this too ya fucking pissant?" She wasn't the largest of people, but damn was she intimidating. She pointed a broken stool leg at him. He put up his hands in a placating gesture.

"Can't we just be friends and forget about this, or at least have a drink and forget about this?" He asked hopefully. A sort of hopeful smile on his face. Morrigan shut him down.

"DO I look like I want to be your bloody friend?" In all fairness to her brusque answer she really didn't.

"Well I just thought that we coul-"

"Shut it." said Morrigan with ice in her voice. "I've kicked the shit out of two people tonight. You want to make number three?" Morrigan took a half step towards him

"Shutting up now," said the mild mannered Rock. He took a couple of steps back, his gaze lingering on the downed Revy, and then switching to Dutch who was immobile on the floor.

"That's what I thought," said Morrigan spitting out a bloody wad of phlegm.

. Artyom stooped and picked up his cane. The bitch had hit him in the leg, and it was sore now. He looked at the Stainless steel gun on the bar. Still in pristine condition. Bao stood up, shotgun in hand.

"For once they didn't totally destroy my bar." he looked thoughtful for a moment then shrugged. "Guess there's a first for everything." He raised an eyebrow at the gun on the counter and Artyom had a flash of realization. "Where's Two Hand's other gun?" asked Bao in mild curiosity. Artyom had already pulled out his Pernach and was searching. Fuck where was it? Rock hadn't taken it, but the blonde man didn't have it either. Dutch was too far away to- he looked over. Artyom saw Dutch in a kneel with the gun aimed. Straight at Morrigan. Benny must have tossed him the gun. Morrigans eyes widened in understanding, and Artyom thought a little fear. You always felt some when a gun was pointed at you no matter how long you fought for. She was frozen in her tracks, eyes transfixed on the gun. Her aquamarine eyes showing in full.

Artyom wouldn't lose another comrade, he refused to have it happen it again. Too many comrades had died by his side over the years for him to lose another. He had only met her this morning, but they had fought side by side and faced death together. That was enough for him. He interposed himself between Morrigan and Dutch brought his gun to bear as fast as he could. He was too slow, his head was still fuzzy from the beating and he couldn't move nearly as fast as normal. Still he tried. Soldiers don't back down. The first round hit him in the lower chest forcing the air from his lungs. The second hit higher up closer to his heart and right over his left lung. The third hit in the centre of his chest. His grip remained firm on the cane, but faltered on his Pernach and it began to slip from nerveless fingers as he fell backwards. Morrigan caught him and began dragging him back towards the rear of the bar. Taking the Pernach from his hand and firing. It forced the pirate crew to jump behind the bar and Dutch to roll behind a column.

Morrigan couldn't believe what had happened. What were the odds that they would run into the very same pirate crew they had tangled with earlier that same day? She had been sure she was going to die when the man called Dutch had gotten the drop on her. There had been nothing she could do. She had felt helpless, and maybe even a little afraid. Then Artyom the man she had met only today, still bleeding and staggering had thrown himself in front of her. To protect her. Why had he done that? He had just met her. His body had jerked and fallen back to her when he had been shot and she had caught him. Disbelief on her face. He had seemed invincible in the air. Like nothing could touch him. Taking his gun she returned fire dragging Artyom towards the back door. The shots forced the pirate crew to take cover. She wasn't familiar with the gun, but it shot bullets and that was what mattered.

"You Bastards!" screamed Morrigan still firing. "You killed him!" She wasn't hitting much dragging Artyom's body with her, but she wasn't going to leave him behind. Dead or alive. More impacts caused Artyoms body to shake and shudder. All hitting him in the chest. Almost like fate wanted to make sure he stayed dead. A line of spent shells followed Morrigan to the door like a twisted parody of Hansel and Gretel's bread crumb trail home. She burst through the back door still dragging Artyom just as the gun clicked dry. She was surprised it hadn't run out sooner. She was sure she had fired more than twenty rounds out of the thing. Wood splinters and chunks of door frame erupted outwards as more rounds impacted after her. She didn't like what she was about to do, but it was necessary. She went to Artyom looking for spare clips on his body. She was kneeling over him, when his eyes shot open and he gasped air into his lungs. Morrigan jerked back in surprise, but unfortunately hit him in the jaw with her head.

"Artyom you're alive," said Morrigan in a mixture of surprise and happiness. She finished grabbing ammo from him, and blind fired around the door not hitting much, but causing a lot of property damage. Artyom was still just trying to breathe normally. Morrigan watched with growing curiosity at the large pile of spent shell casings growing on the ground. A voice cut through the gunfire to be heard in all its furry.

"You fucking Irish Bitch!" screamed Bao in the way only angry barkeeps can. "You tip me then tear up my bar! You're worse than Revy! I never want to see you here again!" He was easily heard over the gunfire.

"Sorry Bao," yelled Morrigan back pumping more rounds into the bar through the doorway, and Dutch doing the same back at her. The other patrons were either taking cover or using the opportunity to settle old grudges in the confusion. "I'll pay for the damages when we come back, I didn't mean for this to happen."

"If I see you again I'l- wait what?" He sounded genuinely surprised. "You're going to pay for the damages? Just like that, no complaining, no threats?"

"Yeah!" Shouted Morrigan trying to be heard. "I feel bad about this and it's partially my fault." Morrigan accentuated her words by finding out the pistol she was using had an automatic feature, and the pop, pop of rounds became a staccato of automatic fire. "Just send me a quote, and I'll cover the cost." More gunfire ripped through the bar as the other patrons started firing too. At the pirates, at Morrigan, and at each other. The walls became pockmarked will holes, and the booze behind the bar began to break and leak over the ground. The air was heavy with the smell of cordite, spilled booze and hot metal. Bullets crisscrossed through the air, and the brass casings danced away from their owners to find rest after rolling and bouncing across the floor.

"Not the booze!" shouted Bao in vain. He looked over at Benny and rock who were behind the bar with him, bullets pinging off the reinforced counter. "You going to help cover the damages?"

"Well you know how Revy is." began Benny "She just does things and-"

"Never mind," said Bao. "You guys never pay to fix this shit anyways." He sighed in resignation. "I would keep you out of the bar if Revy wouldn't kill me for doing it." He shouted over his shoulder. "You still alive Two Hands?" A low groan came back indistinct over the sound of gunfire. "Eh, she's fine."

"Thanks goodness," said Rock a look of relief on his face. "I thought she might have been dead when she got hit like that."

"You have to learn one thing about Revy is she's almost impossible to kill." Said Benny. "My bet is when she wakes up she's going to be reaaally pissed off." He let out a small chuckle. "Just keep you're head down when she comes to, kay Rock?"

"Ummm yeah, got it. Shouldn't we make sure she's alright? Or get her behind the bar?"

"You want to go out in that," said Benny jerking his thumb over his shoulder as more rounds smashed into the booze. "Than be my guest."

"Benny I need another mag!" shouted Dutch from behind his cover. Benny just threw him the other Cutlass.

"That's all there is Dutch, I can't get to Revy!"

"Shit, well get ready to move. Once it dies down a bit we're getting the fuck outta here."

"Got it Dutch, just say when."

With a cry, a slightly bloody Revy jumped over the counter and into cover. She wasn't angry, if anything she was grinning like a shark.

"Shit when did this turn into an all out fucking war?"

"Revy you're okay," said Rock happily. "Do you need any help?"

Revy just looked at him like he had just sprouted wings. "Well you can grab a gun and start actually shooting back." Seeing the look on his face she knew that wasn't going to happen. "Or you can get my boys off the counter."

"Right," said Rock. He looked uncertain for a moment. "Ummm Dutch has your guns." Revy had a startled look on her face, and the report of a Cutlas confirmed Rocks story. "Sorry," said Rock. Revy didn't answer him, didn't even get angry. How hard did she get hit? Wondered rock.

"Hey Dutch!" called Revy. I need one of my boys back!" A silver coloured gun arced through the air, and fell behind the counter with a clatter. "Don't just fucking throw them Dutch." Now I'll have to fix the sights."

"Just fucking use it!" replied Dutch, shooting off a couple more rounds. His face was slightly swollen from his fight with Morrigan, and his arm was still bleeding.

"On it Dutch." With a click clack a new clip slid home into the modified Beretta. "Time for some fucking payback." Revy got into a crouch, and jumped into the fray. Then she began showing the bar why she was the most feared gun in Roanupur.

With all the confusion in the bar, Morrigan checked on Artyom. He had coughed a little bit, and winced when she checked his chest. There was no blood. The paranoid bugger had worn a bullet proof vest to the bar. Then again it wasn't that paranoid if you actually did end up getting shot when you had it. Maybe she should start wearing one too. Especially if she was going to be in this city for any length of time.

"You good to move love?" she asked, keeping an eye on the doorway. He coughed and said something in Russian. "Pardon?" asked Morrigan.

"Yeah, I'm bloody just great." He held his hand. "Just help me up." The blood was drying on his face, and he looked awful. Morrigan pulled him up and he leaned heavily on her, cane in hand. They started

a sort of walk stagger down the alley back street.

"So what was that about me being your girlfriend hmmm?" asked Morrigan playfully.

"Morrigan," said Artyom, his tone serious.

"Yeah love?"

"Shut up." Morrigan just laughed, then clutched her chest, "ahhh bloody hell that hurts." They flagged down a taxi when they got to the street, and gave the address for their new home/office. Artyom paid extra for him to hurry. He looked over at Morrigan.

"So what did you think of your first day?"

"Well if every day is like this I expect danger pay."

"Hows twenty grand a month sound?" Morrigans eyes got comically wide.

"Wh-what?" she couldn't comprehend that amount of money. "Just for working security?"

"No," said Artyom. "I want you to be my personal bodyguard. You handle yourself well and you saved my ass today. I like skill, and you have it in spades. Plus you also get bonuses, three weeks vacation, and if we make a huge amount on a job extra pay." Morrigan broke out in a large smile.

"No ones going to lay a finger on ya while I'm around." She reached over, and took him into a tight hug.

"Ahhh fuck, ow, ow, OW, my chest!" Morrigan pulled back quickly.

"Sorry about that." she pursed her lips. "Okay no ones going to lay a finger on you starting now."

"Sounds good," said Artyom closing his eyes. "Wake me when we get to the office."

"You got it love." Morrigan sat back in her seat. It almost seemed unreal. She had just gone from just making two grand a month getting the hell taxed out of it with no real time off to making ten times that tax free plus bonuses. She looked over at her new boss already breathing deeply. He wasn't bad to look at and he had shown he was willing to take a bullet for her. Several in fact if the vest was anything to go by. She had thrown her lot in with this man, and her future was now irrevocably linked with his. She looked out the window at the field of neon flashing past the window. "Well for better or for worse I'm here now." a small smile graced her lips and she checked on Artyom again. You can never be too careful.

"Where'd that leprechaun bitch go?" asked Revy surveying the bar. Anyone who had been shooting at them was now staining the floor red. Dutch had retrieved his .44 and Revy had both of her Cutlasses in hand. Barrels pointing towards the floor. Guns held loosely at her sides.

"She ran off out the back door, with her little friend. I don't think he's dead though, I didn't see any blood when I shot him."

"That would explain why it hurt so fucking much to hit him in the chest," said Revy rubbing her knuckles." A smile broke out on her face. "So I just decided to make him a little more pretty." She let out a self satisfied chuckle. Only to be replaced by a scowl. "Well there goes my night of drinking," she said forlornly. She sighed. "I'm really starting to hate this guy."

"You and me both Revy," said Dutch checking the load on his revolver. "First he wrecks my boat, then he shoots up our watering hole." He clacked the cylinder closed on the gun. He let out a grunt of irritation. "Well let's head back to the office, we got enough booze their to drown our sorrows for a while." He holstered his revolver and looked over at Benny. "Benny boy, you want to go bring the car around and we can get out of here?"

"Sure can do Dutch," Benny skirted around some bodies lying on the floor and went to go grab the car. Revy started walking towards the door, just before a creeping pool of blood reached her boots.

"I just want to get blind fucking drunk tonight," said Revy holstering her pistols. "Goddamn my head hurts," said Revy clutching her head. "Fuck."

"You know if you want, my mother had a tea recipe that helps with headaches." said Rock hoping to help. Revy glanced over still holding her head.

"I doubt that jap crap will work, but if you want to give it a shot go for it. It's your time and money." Rock seemed to brighten at Revy's goodwill.

"Great, it should have you feeling in tip top shape, by tomorrow." Revy raised an eyebrow at him.

"Tip top? What the hell is this the 1950's?" She rolled her eyes at him. "Sometimes I think that you don't really know how to speak English." Rock reddened a little at the words. "Don't worry," said Revy. "I'm just playing with you. Let's get the hell out of here." A honking horn heralded their rides arrival.

"Time to go boys and girls," said Dutch heading towards the doors. His broad shoulders slouched in a relaxed posture as he lit a cigarette.

"Yeah, yeah we're coming Dutch." said Revy hurrying towards the door. "Rock get your ass moving."

"Coming," said Rock breaking into a light trot. "Sorry about the bar Bao," he called as he left the bar. Bao stood up from behind the bar, shotgun in hand.

"Just get the fuck out!" Shouted Bao after the retreating Rock. He sighed heavily leaning the shotgun over his shoulder as he heard the car pull away. "What a goddamned mess." The bar was in complete disarray and most if not all the furniture needed replaced. A large amount of booze had been destroyed, and he would need to completely renovate AGAIN to fix the bar up, and get out all the bullet holes. He wasn't made of money and this was costing him a fortune. With a shriek of protest a hanging light fell down taking some of the roof with it in a loud crash. Bao sighed more heavily this time. "Fuck my life." said Bao dejectedly.

"What did you get into a fight with a hippo?" asked Brent as he was checking Artyoms wounds from the bar fight. "You really should have come to me last night, it could have saved you a lot of discomfort." chastised Brent as he rubbed disinfectant into the cuts.

"Yeah," said Artyom wincing from the slight sting of disinfectant. "After the beating I took all I really wanted to do was take a nice long sleep." He grunted as Brent probed his chest looking for broken ribs. It was a mass of purple, black, and blue bruises.

"Well you still should have woken me up. If you're ribs had been broken by the impact of the bullets, it could have punctured something important or even barring that begun healing incorrectly, which would have meant surgery." He looked at Artyom trying to convey the seriousness of the situation.

"Eh I trust you on the other end of the knife," said Artyom dismissing his concerns. "By the way, hows Morrigan settling in?" asked Artyom eager to change the subject.

"Well Besniks happy that we have more firepower, and he's grilling her about her service, and running her through the paces. Besnik seems happy with her, and that's saying something." Besnik was notoriously dismissive of western military training, and he tested new recruits until they broke or the steel in their spine shone through. To have him not only say she would do, but seem impressed with her really said something about her. The ones that impressed Besnik always turned out to be the heavy hitters. "Jacques almost choked on his tea when we told him what you were paying her, and offering a share of the profits on jobs." A wry smile broke out on his face. I've never heard someone swear for so long in French." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Then again there was this one Legionnaire I met."

"Where's Angelika by the way?" Asked Artyom trying to avoid story time with Brent.

"Oh Angelika?" asked Brent looking up. "She went to go greet the neighbours."

"Is that safe?" asked Artyom concerned. Angelika was a grown woman and had military training, but she could be a bit ditzy sometimes, and childish. Roanupur also wasn't the safest place to be in despite the illusion of civilization and a working government. Though if anyone ever tried to hurt her they had to deal with Besnik. He acted every bit of the protective father to Angelika, and one time even grounded her for coming back late constantly. The look on her face had been priceless when Besnik had said she wasn't allowed to go out for a week. She had tried, but Besnik had calmly and gingerly carried her over his shoulder back inside. She got her revenge by making him play nonstop monopoly.

"She's only going to the buildings on either side, and Angelika had got her P-83 on her. You worry too much."

"I guess so." said Artyom hopping off the examining table, and reaching for his coat.

"Where do you think you're going?" asked Brent putting on surgical gloves.

"You finished your examination right? So I'm done here."

"Not quite," said Brent as he snapped down a glove. "You've been putting it off." Artyom felt cold dread in his stomach.

"It's fine," said Artyom with false happiness. "Besides I'm only thirty four what's the odds I'm going to get it?" When he saw the look on Brents face he knew there was no avoiding it.

"Come on Artyom everyone has to get a prostate exam at some point." He guided Artyom back to the table. Despite his protests.

"But I really don't need one." said Artyom starting to panic. Brent was a tall man, standing at six foot three, close cropped hair, and his hands were also quite large. Too large in Artyom's opinion.

"Come now Artyom it won't take long, and you can never be too careful," said Brent reassuringly. Artyom looked at Brent's hands again. They really were too large.

Angelika was having a good time today. They were actually staying in a city this time, which meant easy access to running water, take out, and cute boys who didn't think she would make a good third wife. She didn't care how many cows Jamal had, she wasn't going to be a Wednesday wife.

She hummed a song to herself as she waked down the harbour front to their neighbours. She was wearing a simple white tee-shirt, and sweat pants. She wore boots out of habit, because when you work around such heavy machinery all day, you always want something with steel toes.

She felt the weight of her pistol on her hip as she walked. A constant reminder of what she had done. She hadn't wanted to kill her boyfriend, she really hadn't. She had genuinely loved him, and thought that he might be the one. He was always buying her gifts, and telling her she was beautiful no matter how much oil and grease had been on her. But when she had seen him with that kid, that little girl... she had lost it. No one had the right to do that, to be that sick. When she had come to, she had a bloody exhaust valve in her hands that she had brought home to fix. It was broken, but it still had enough weight behind it to crush his head into a pulp. Angelika had thrown up at the sight of it, and had been unable to look at the naked girl on the bed. The bed she had slept in. The bed she had made love in, to the very same man she had killed. The man who did that to children. It made her nauseous beyond belief. She had hurriedly packed, and left the house scared as hell and traumatized at what she had done. Angelika had been so scared that she would not only be found out for the murder, but also blamed for the acts done to the child. She thought she could handle the murder charge, but for the child crime to be pinned on her. It would have broken her parents hearts. She payed to stow away on an outbound freighter and left Poland and her old life behind. She was naturally a happy person, but it took a while before she could smile easily again after that, or laugh at anything.

Joining Artyom's crew, and meeting Besnik had been just what she had needed. Besnik was a nice old guy, and he seemed to think he was her adoptive father, which was cute. It was nice that he always looked after her. She had actually caught him packing her a lunch when they were going to be spending the day in the field. He had denied it was for her, but the lunch had orange juice in it. Angelika loved orange juice, Besnik hated it.

The wind blew Angelika's hair to the side, and she vainly grabbed at it before managing to get a hold of it, and put it into a functional pony tail that fell halfway down her shoulder blades. She resumed her humming, and continued walking towards an office building with a built in dock, and the end of a boat just peeking out. She walked up a metal flight of stairs, and knocked on the door, her usual smile in place. She still didn't like the gun on her hip.

Revy wasn't in a good mood today, which meant that no one else would be in a good mood either. She had been better when her headache went away thanks to Rock, but not by much. He was going over some of the finances, when he heard a knock on the door.

"Get the fucking door Benny!" shouted Revy from the couch in what was their living room. She was watching TV with Dutch, and Rock was cooking breakfast.

Benny got up from the computer and stretched. He walked out of his room rubbing the back of his neck. He went to the door and opened it expecting to find someone wanting to hire the Lagoon company out. Instead he found a smiling young women with her brown hair pulled back, and a gun on her hip. Before he could do more than blink in surprise, the young woman thrust out her hand and began speaking in a chipper voice.

"Hi my names Angelika, and I just moved in down the Road. What's your name?" Benny shook her hand completely perplexed. He looked down the harbour, and saw people unloading trucks and bringing equipment inside a warehouse as well as several other buildings.

"My names Benny," he said still shaking her hand. She still had a smile on her face even when she was talking.

"It's nice to meet you Benny," said Angelika letting go of his hand and clasping hers behind her back. Rocking slightly on her heels.

"Yeah um not to be rude or anything but why did you come over?" asked Benny. Angelika looked at him like it was the most obvious thing in the world, and he should already know the answer, but she didn't look at him like he thought he was stupid.

"Well I just wanted to come say hi to my new neighbours and introduce myself." she said leaning forward a little. She was as tall as Benny, and she didn't have to look up at all to talk to him. "You're kind of cute."

"What?" said Benny completely out of depth as to who this woman was, why she was here, and why she was hitting on him.

"Yeah," said Angelika oblivious to his surprise. "You have the whole intellectual thing going on." She finished, and stared at him. Benny stared back. "Do you want my number?"

"Ummm I's sorry miss?" he was waiting for a last name, and trying to get rid of her.

"Oh I don't use my last name, because if I do the police might find me and take me back to Poland. So you can just call me Angelika." She still had the same smile on her face and seemed completely oblivious to the fact she had just revealed she was a wanted felon.

Oh shit, thought Benny. I'm talking to a crazy lady. Okay Benny just talk to her, send her on her way, and this won't turn into the Manson family massacre. He tried to smile back, it was strained and easily false. Angelika didn't seem to notice.

"Well it was nice to meet you Angelika, but I have things to do today so I-"

"Benny who the fuck is it?" called an angry Chinese American landmine named Revy." Is it a customer?"

"Uh no it's just someone introducing herself to us, and she was just leaving."

"No I wasn't," said Angelika twisting her head to the side a bit. Benny thought for a half second her head might keep spinning like in the Exorcist, and then a demon might crawl out spewing vomit. Instead it stayed the same young woman with the clear blue eyes, and a happy smile.

"Yeah well you see," said Benny trying to explain the situation without outright saying he was freaked out by her presence. Dutch just made it worse.

"Well just show her in Benny Boy, it's rude to keep guests outside." Dutch obviously hadn't heard the conversation, and Benny really didn't want her inside his sometimes home/workplace.

"Great," said Angelika, seemingly happy at the prospect of meeting more of her new neighbours. She elbowed her way past Benny, then pulled him in after her. Benny let out a small cry of surprise, and was drug behind her. He really wanted to go back to his computers.

She was immediately within view of everyone, since the harbour office war more open than the town office they normally used.

"Hi," said Angelika waving and still holding onto Benny. "My names Angelika, and I just moved in down the road from here."

"The fuck should we care who you are?" said Revy only looking long enough to see where, and if she had a gun on her. Angelika's face fell a little at that, and she got a little more quiet at that.

"Well I just thought I'd introduce myself since I'll be umm working and living down the Road a little." She finished with a bit of a forced laugh.

"Should I care that you're going to be living down the road? Do you want me to give you a fucking gold star and say good job?" asked Revy annoyed that her TV watching time had been interrupted by the overly happy woman. Angelika's smile went away at that.

"Well I just thought that you might ahh, you kn-know be interested since we kind of are a transport com-company like you guys." She rubbed the back of her neck, but didn't let go of Benny. When she got nervous or put down she started to stutter. She hated it, but she couldn't do much about it. It was also an easy tell for Besnik when someone was making Angelika uncomfortable or unhappy.

"What do you fucking mean you're a transport company like us?" asked Revy raising her voice and standing up. Angelika visibly flinched back. She wasn't used to confrontation, and since she was nice to everyone she usually never had to deal with it.

"I-I'm sorry, I j-just thought that um maybe you uhh wo-would like to well, umm know."

"Can't you speak without fucking stuttering. If you're going to bother us, at least speak clearly you dumb bitch." That particularly hurt Angelika. She took insults very personally, and thought when people insulted her it was because of her own shortcomings, despite what they said or why. Angelika wanted to leave, but she didn't know how to go about it without seeming rude. She was spared any further insults, or having to answer Revy anymore, by the mild mannered Rock.

"Well I for one am very happy to meet you Angelika, and if you would like to tell us about yourself I would be more than happy to listen." Rock had taken off his oven mitts, and had walked over to Angelika still wearing the apron. Her smile came back full force then. Benny had felt her hand tighten on his when Revy had talked to her, and he felt somewhat sorry for her. Even if she was still probably crazy.

"Tch whatever," said Revy dismissing the whole thing and sitting back down on the couch, and returned to the TV.

"My names Rock by the way." He said extending his hand to shake hers. She shook his hand, having finally let go of Benny to shake his hand. Benny retreated in case she tried to grab a hold of him again. That woman had an iron grip. She had a thoughtful expression on her face as she shook Rock's hand.

"That's an odd name." said Angelika.

"Well it's more of a nickname than my actual name." My actual name-"

"It's okay I only ever go by my first anyways so I don't mind calling you Rock." Benny just watched silently. Why did she only do the crazy when she talked to him? Now she was only being a timid happy girl. It just wasn't fair. Revy just grunted in annoyance, and turned the TV up.

"You say that you work for a transport company?" said Dutch showing interest in the conversation for the first time since it started.

"Yup, one of the best." said Angelika cheerily. Revy though that she must have been on a lot of uppers if she was this happy.

"Well would you like to tell us about it over breakfast? I think Rock's almost done with cooking." Dutch was wearing his muscle shirt forgoing his flak jacket for comfort. He still had his sunglasses on though.

"Well if it's not too much trouble, I would like that." Where did the crazy lady at the door go? Thought Benny, it was like she had been replaced by someone else. Someone more sane. Revy just rolled her eyes.

Over breakfast Angelika told them what their company did, in general terms. She said they were a transport and security company that mostly used helicopters and Trucks to move things around. When asked how many of them there were, she said there was only a few of them on permanently, but they hired on a lot of local hires when they came to an area. Dutch asked who were all permanent hires, and so Angelika started explaining who everyone was.

"And the last one is Besnik," said Angelika taking another bite of a pancake with too much syrup in Benny's opinion. "He's the head of security at Cossack Support. He's kind of like a dad to me. He can be really overprotective of me sometimes though. It's sweet, but it's like he thinks I'm fifteen or something."

"What did he do before he joined Cossack Support?" asked Dutch. Most of his meal was untouched and he would occasionally sip his drink.

"Oh he used to be an Albanian paratrooper. He said he was involved in a few raids on NATO bases, and helped hunt down special forces who snuck in."

"Hold on a sec," said Rock. "There were never any reports of raids in the Western part of Europe by the Warsaw Pact, or the Soviet Union." Angelika fixed him with a small smile as she took another bite of her pancake.

"That's what you think."

Dutch sat back in his chair and relaxed while Revy was still in a poor mood over their guest and the events of last night. She was smoking a cigarette and steadfastly refusing to participate in the conversation.

Dutch was relieved in a way. He had been worried that the company moving in down the road had been the same one that had shot up his boat, and they had gotten into a fight with last night at the Yellow Flag. The girl was a little air headed to be sure, but harmless. She had a gun, but in Roanupur that was more common than a watch. He picked up his fork and knife then began cutting his pancake. He felt silly for thinking she had been part of a merc group.

"Oh wait I missed a couple," said Angelika with a look of triumph on her face. Dutch's knife slipped on the plate, and scratched on the porcelain. "One's really new, we only hired her on last night. Revy fixed her with a stare out of the corner of her eye. Dutch had a feeling that he should trust his feelings more often.

"Could you tell us about her?" asked Dutch keeping his tone neutral.

"Oh sure, she's pretty and her names Morrigan. She's nice, and Besnik likes her, says she's got some good skills." Angelika was cut off mid stream by Dutch.

"Could you tell us more about how she looks, and where she came from?"

"What? Oh right. Well she's a little shorter than me, but a lot tougher." She let out a small laugh. She's got black hair about this long." said Angelika showing where she meant by putting her hand just below her jaw. She had Revy's full attention now. "Shes' also got bluey green eyes, and I don't know where she's from but she sounds Irish." Now she had Revy's undivided attention, and the table went quiet. Angelika tentatively took another bite of her pancake, noting the atmosphere that the table had taken.

"So," began Revy in a dangerously low tone. "The other one from your group, it's a guy right? Blonde dirty blonde hair, blue eyes, walks with a limp, has a cane with him?"

"Yeah," said Angelika trying to stay cheerful in light of the recent mood of the table. "Have you met him? He owns Cossack Support and he fought in Afghanistan an-"

"Shut it," said Revy forcefully. Angelika quieted immediately.

"He flies a gunship right?" said Revy leaning forwards a little across the table.

"Y-yeah, it's an mi-24 hind, i-it's what I'm rated to f-fix." said Angelika nervously putting down her fork and knife. "I-I really sh-should be going." she finished rising from the table.

"Sit," Revy said in a voice that brokered no argument. Angelika sat back down. "You see these," said Revy pulling out her twin Cutlasses. Angelika recognized them immediately, her eyes widening. Artyom had been talking about those guns last night. The customized guns, and the group who had been at the bar that had beat him up. How could she have been so stupid? These people matched exactly the group that Artyom had described. Suddenly the gun on her hip didn't feel as unpleasant anymore, it felt very welcome. She began inching her hand towards her pistol. "Don't even try it bitch," said Revy cocking one of her guns and spinning the other before putting it away. Angelika put her hands up. Revy just laughed. "You know that I've been in a bad mood these past couple of days?" asked Revy. Angelika didn't trust herself to respond.

"Revy, come on we don't even know if it's the same group or someone else." said Rock trying to get Revy to calm down.

"Oh grow a pair Rock, she's obviously with them. You see the look in her fucking eyes when I pulled out my Cutlasses? She recognized them."

"You don't know that," protested Rock.

"Put the fucking pieces together Rock, she shows up the day after we get attacked by a gunship. She works on the same model of gunship, and her boss and his fucking leprechaun friend both match the description of the people who got into a fight with us last night. I've been waiting to get some payback on those two fucks, but I guess she'll have to do."

Angelika tried to push back from the table and run, but Revy grabbed the front of her shirt and brought her crashing down onto the little table causing a yelp to escape from Angelika. She tried to pull her pistol, but Revy put her Cutlass to her head.

"Give me another fucking reason, I dare you." growled Revy. Angelika let go of the gun and wanted desperately to be somewhere else. She looked pleadingly at Benny, but he looked away. She felt her stomach drop, and she began to sweat lightly. "He ain't gonna help you, you little cunt and now the only question left to ask is where do you want the bullet?"

" I-I-I-I" said Angelika unable to speak clearly because of her intense fear.

"Oh you want it in the eye?" asked Revy menacingly, bringing the pistol so Angelika was staring down the barrel. To her the dark barrel was alluding to her imminent death. "Any last words you Pollack little bitch?"

"Do-d-don p-pl-" Angelika felt tears well up, and she felt shame now in addition to fear. She wanted to leave now. She wanted to just run out the door, and go to Beznik. She wanted to just go. He would look after her, he would protect her.

"What's that? I couldn't understand you. If you can say it without stuttering I might just let you go. Can you do that?" Angelika tried, she really did. Angelika took a moment to compose herself.

"Can you please let me g-go?" She felt fresh horror build in her at her bodies betrayal, and felt the gun pressed up against her face, right in front of her eye.

The metal was cold, hard, and uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, but it looks like you just lost. Thanks for playing." Angelika shut her eyes and waited for the end. Her saviour came in the form of Rock who spoke up just before Revy pulled

"Revy you really should just let her go."

"What the fuck was that Rock?" said Revy glaring over at him. A whimpering Angelika on the table.

"Think about it," said Rock. "If they find out that we killed one of theirs, what's to stop them from getting that gunship into the air and levelling this place, and hunting us down?"

"The fact that I'm going to go over there and put a bullet into each of their fucking heads after I finish with this bitch."

"But Revy think about it. They all have military training. They're armed to the teeth, and there's a lot of guys over there. Also think about all the people unloading their stuff. You and I both know they're hardened criminals, and if the bullets start flying they're going to pull their guns. I don't know about you but those sound like piss poor odds to me." Revy just growled, and looked down at Angelika, who seemed to be saying something in Polish. Praying maybe. She pushed her back off the table, causing her to stagger back a few steps, a look of disbelief and hope on her face. The front of her shirt was stained with syrup, and had a few pieces of food stuck to it.

"Looks like today's your lucky day bitch, better start running before I start shooting." Angelika looked at Revy for a split second before taking off. She paused at Rock for a moment.

"Thank you," said Angelika in a voice little more than a whisper.

"I SAID RUN BITCH!" Shouted Revy shooting a round past her head. Angelika took off like the hounds of hell were after her. Practically leaping down the flight of stairs, and running as fast as she could back to Beznik, and the others. She didn't stop running until she was holding him, and had her face buried in his chest.

It had been hard for Artyom to convince Beznik not to go and kill everyone within a three mile radius after he had finished consoling a hysterical Angelika. She had, had food stuck to her clothing, and had been sobbing uncontrollably. She had refused to let go of Beznik, and now she wouldn't let him out of her eyesight, and became panicky when he did.

It seemed that the pirate crew from before had found out she worked for him, and had put a gun to her head, threatening to kill her. Only to be stopped, by the polite Asian man named Rock. He was glad Angelika was alright, but now she only felt safe when Beznik was around. It made him angry. Angry enough to kill. Angelika wouldn't hurt a fly, and only carried a gun on Artyoms insistence. Now she didn't take it off even when working on the hind like she normally did.

"So Black Lagoon is it?" said Artyom looking across to the Lagoon dockyard. "I have a feeling that we are going to become very well acquainted in the coming days." He gave one last look at the pirate warehouse. He was going to crush them beneath his boot heel. Grind them into fucking dust.

AN: Well I hope I didn't portray Revy as too cold blooded, or am portraying my female characters as too weak. I just see Angelika as the innocent type who doesn't like violence, and in general I think women are more sensitive than men. Not weaker, just more sensitive. I think I got Rock down pretty good. He's a bit of a wuss, but when the cards are down he can be pretty badass. I kept wondering if Dutch would have done something to stop Revy, because he does stop her from doing some stuff, but he doesn't always moderate what she does. Also I thought he would be a little mad at Angelika for the fact she was part of the group that almost completely wrecked him boat. Also the Lagoon wasn't repaired in this chapter, Angelika only saw the front part sticking out. Also I'm up to Roberta's blood trail now in the series. I figure I'll end this fic when I get to where the series is on hiatus. Also I think my chapters are getting better the more I do this, and the more I write. Again thanks for reading and keep giving me my crack which is reviews.


	7. Building the nest

**Chapter 7 Building the Nest**

**AN:** I've been watching the blood trail part, and it looks like a good place to end the fic. Although I'm in the first couple of episodes so this fic has a long way to go yet. I think I'm doing a decent job if the reviews are anything to go by. Anything you would like me to improve on, or any canon mistakes as to names or places just let me know. I'm going to go for the longest fic in the lagoon section on this site. I never even thought this story would reach 100 000 words, but at the rate it's going that is going to be easy. I guess when you start writing it just flows at its own pace. Well here's another chapter, finals in June so I'll have to slow down writing then. Also if I get a cadet camp there 's gonna be a hiatus glider for the win guys. . 

"No I don't want to do it," said Artyom stubbornly, sitting behind his desk in the office of his hangar. It was on the second floor, with a large window looking out to the harbour behind his desk. There was some other furniture scattered around the room, along with a few filing cabinets and a computer on his desk. He had a game of solitaire open on it.

"Artyom we simply don't have the availability of combat contracts to simply rely on you and the Sabres for funding." Said Jacques in a placating tone. "If we want to appear even slightly as a legitimate business we need more pilots. Who ever heard of a helicopter licensing firm with only one pilot?" Jacques was trying to show how important it was to have more pilots, but Artyom wouldn't budge.

"I don't want to hire on any other pilots, end of discussion." said Artyom flatly refusing the idea. He went back to his game of solitaire. Jacques expression was neutral. He tried a different tact.

"They wouldn't have to do any of the combat contracts, you could still do those."

"Don't want to hear it Jacques," said Artyom not looking up from his game of Solitaire.

"Artyom you're being unreasonable, I've already purchased several civilian model helicopters and fixed wing aircraft." This made Artyom look up.

"You what?" said Artyom incredulous.

"Yes," said Jacques "We simply would not have the funds or wealth of contracts to operate as we did in Liberia and the Congo as we normally do. We will need to do sightseeing tours, wildlife observation in conjunction with the Taiwanese government, legitimate cargo and construction jobs, as well as ferrying VIPs to their destinations." Artyom was too stunned for words. "As well as flying in hunters and fisherman into the wilderness for their sporting expeditions." Artyom must have looked quite funny with his mouth slightly open and staring at Jacques, because it caused Morrigan to laugh.

"Trying to catch flies over there love?" asked Morrigan coyly as she sat in a plush chair at the other end of the room. She was wearing a navy blue tea shirt, with a pair of off white cargo pants with a pistol on her hip. She had chosen a Browning Hi-power as her weapon of choice, and it was within easy reach should she have need of it. Her combat boots were a dark black, with fresh polish applied to make them stay nice and dark, but not have a shine. She sat with a smile on her face as Artyom continued to stare at Jacques. She took a sip from a bottle of water.

"How much did you spend?" asked Artyom with a somewhat stunned voice.

"The total was four million, five hundred ninety eight thousand, three hundred, and forty two dollars." Morrigan choked and sputtered on her water going into a coughing fit.

"Well that's not as bad as I thought," said Artyom relieved. He had been worried Jacques had spent a lot of money.

"What do you bloody well mean not bad?" said Morrigan wiping water from her mouth. "That's a right fortune." Artyom looked at her like someone who had just made a very obvious mistake and now he had to explain it to them.

"In aviation that's not as much as you might think." said Artyom in a scholarly tone of voice as if he was educating a new pupil.

"What do you mean it's not much in _aviation_," said Morrigan exaggerating the word. Artyom got up and walked over to a window overlooking the ground floor.

"You see the Huey right there?" said Artyom pointing. Morrigan walked over to the window.

"Yeah."

"To buy one on the open market costs three to five million used." Morrigan looked at him surprised.

"What's the thing made out of gold?" asked Morrigan still not quite believing the cost of the machines.

"No it's just that helicopters cost much more than other forms of aircraft like fixed wing. You see when you fly a fixed wing aircraft the wings help with the lift making it easier on fuel and the machine itself. Also there is a principle difference on how the two types operate. In a helicopter the rotors produce both the lift and the thrust putting the entire weight of the helicopter and force from the thrust on the rotors. To put it in simple terms helicopters are like mechanical clocks compared to sundials which are just regular aircraft. Helicopters have a lot more moving parts, and they are much harder to fly requiring more attention, skill, and you are always flying with no chance of simply setting the pitch of the propellers allowing the aircraft to fly itself. Having more parts also means more precise machining and maintenance as well like I said earlier added cost. Also there is no auto pilot, you are always in control. You also have to work the collective in a helicopter controlling how much power you give to the rotors determining your altitude in stable flight. There is also a tail rotor on the helicopter counteracting the torque produced by the main rotor, stopping you from spinning in circles and creating that characteristic thump. You control the yaw by increasing or decreasing rear rotor pressure. The thump is caused by the the tail rotor cutting the downwards airwaves of the main rotor. Those are the basic differences between helicopters, and fixed wing. So any questions?" Morrigan was staring at him blankly. "Morrigan," said Artyom trying to get her attention. She blinked and her eyes focused again.

"I'm sorry what?" Artyom couldn't believe it. He had just explained everything she needed to know and she had zoned out on him.

"Weren't you listening," demanded Artyom like an irate school teacher.

"Well yeah, mostly" said Morrigan sheepishly. "Something about helicopters being more expensive, something about clocks, and something about helicopters thumping." Artyom sighed in exasperation.

"You really don't care do you," said Artyom defeatedly.

"Well it's not that I don't care it just that well..." she was searching for the correct phrase looking off to the side. "It's just not my thing." she said trying not to hurt her bosses feelings.

"Eh, whatever," said Artyom realizing it was a lost cause. He turned his attention back to Jacques who was waiting patiently by his desk facing him. "So what did you end up buying me anyways Jacques?"

"I'm glad you asked," said Jacques opening a manilla folder and reading off the order forms. I have bought two helicopters of the Jet Ranger model for tourism and sightseeing. I have also bought several small fixed wing aircraft, of Cessna 162, and 172 Models which will also serve the same purpose. As well as three Cessna 182P Amphibian Float planes for hunting and fishing expeditions. The total for these aircraft and shipping came in at just over three point four million." Jacques closed the folder.

"What happened to the other one point one million?" asked Artyom.

"Those funds will go into constructing an adequate runway, and storage facilities for the aircraft. We may need more to construct a control tower as well as other runway facilities including a PAPI landing system, ILS, and other airport necessities. Artyom sighed.

"How much is this going to end up costing me?"

"In total I estimate six million." said Jacques in a business like tone. "That is only adding another one point five million to the original total." Said Jacques trying to show Artyom that it wouldn't be nearly as much as he thought.

"Very well you have the funds you need. Get me a statement, and I'll release the funds to you."

"I already have it with me," said Jacques pulling out a form and putting it on the desk. "As well as dossiers on potential pilots for us to hire." He put down a few more papers bound into a neat stack onto Artyoms desk. Artyom signed the release form and gave Jacques the money he requested. He had never led Artyom astray and he was usually right. He also knew how to play Artyom to get what he wanted.

Even after knowing and living with Jacques for over two years the man was still a bit of an enigma. Who he really was or where he came from was still a mystery. No matter how high he got on his off time, or how relaxed he was he guarded his secrets jealously. Not even Angelika could get anything out of him, and she could get launch codes from the Soviet Missile command given long enough. You just couldn't say no to that face.

Jacques picked up his large newspaper, and left the room. Why he carried it wherever he went was beyond Artyom.

"Now who should we hire?" asked Artyom looking to Morrigan.

"Well in my experience, you want someone who actually knows what they're bloody well doing, and people we can trust to keep quiet about the other side of the business." Morrigan was referring to the drug, arms, and combat side of Cossack Support. She disapproved heavily of the drug smuggling side of the business and refused to escort any of the shipments. Being Artyoms bodyguard meant that she had to come regardless, and as most of the shipments were picked up in the MI-8 helicopter, he usually had Besnik with him for added muscle. Morrigan stuck by his side like a shadow, and refused to even look at the drugs. Arms shipments didn't bother her though, if anything she liked look at them even when she wasn't supposed to. Jacques came to make sure the contract was carried out in full and payment delivered. Even in the Jungles of Vietnam he had his damn paper with him. If anything he held it more closely.

"Okay so that excludes law abiding citizens, and people with connections to criminal groups." said Artyom looking over the resumes. He discarded a few with connections to the Triads, and various other groups. He had to admit Jacques was a very thorough man with his reports. Very detailed.

"Hey love I just got an idea." said Morrigan sitting on his desk looking at the portfolios. Artyom looked up from the stack.

"What is it?" asked Artyom.

"Why don't we put out an add in the local paper for pilots?"

"What?"exclaimed Artyom in slight shock. "Do you know how many people would come that we couldn't hire? And god help us if they found the hind and our little armoury." The 'little' Armoury rivalled most arms depots, able to arm just about every man woman and child in Roanupur. Whenever a client stiffed him on an arms delivery payment he kept the weapons and Besnik took his pick to add to the armoury. Needless to say, his 'pick' was any gun that worked. Morrigan rolled her eyes at Artyom.

"It's simple. We just have them make an appointment, we keep them away from the overly illegal stuff, and we see if they're any good or not. If they're not we tell them we'll consider them, thank them for their time, and give'em a boot out the door."

"It could work," conceded Artyom.

"Trust me love it'll work just fine." She gave Artyom a wink and ruffled his hair before hopping off his desk. Artyom hated it when she did that. "I'll go put an add in the paper, wanna come?"

"No I have to sort through these papers and do some work." Morrigan rolled her eyes.

"I know for a fact the only work you do is fix the hind, and look at the books with Jacques." said Morrigan staring at him intently. "The hind doesn't need fixed, and the books are up to date." she pointed a finger at Artyom. "If I leave you here, you're going to sit on your fat arse and play solitaire."

"I'm crippled," said Artyom pointing to his cane.

"Not crippled enough to do PT with Besnik, and challenge him to a pushup contest though right? Which you lost I might add."

"My leg gets stiff in the afternoons," said Artyom trying to make his case.

"Quit your bitching, we both know it's not that bad let's go." Morrigan stared down at him hands on her hips.

"Alright fine," said Artyom in defeat.

"Good," said Morrigan cheerfully. "Grab your cane and let's take your crippled arse for a walk."

"I'm not crippled," said Artyom getting up in a huff. Morrigan stared at him in disbelief.

"You just said you were crippled when you tried to get out of this." Artyom stared at her with a smile in his eyes that Morrigan failed to see. This was fun every time.

"No I didn't you must of imagined it." He had lain the bait and now he had to see if she would take it. She didn't just take it, she ran it down, tackled it, and stole its wallet. Then insulted its mother.

"You're a bloody liar, you said and I quote," said Morrigan holding up a finger. "I'm crippled and my leg gets sore in the afternoon." She did it complete with finger quotes, whiny voice, and a look that said she wasn't letting it go until she won. Artyom found these conversation incredibly fun. "Now if you try to weasel your way out of this, I'm going to stick my size nine boot straight up your arse until I tickle your wee little tonsils and you taste the polish." Though no one would ever tell Morrigan for fear of grievous bodily harm, her Irish accent made it so whenever she said wee it was absolutely adorable. If you ignored the threat that usually came beforehand.

"I think that you must be off it dear, probably too much of that famous Irish whiskey in you. You should really lay off that stuff while you're working." That set her off like a rocket.

"You ruddy bastard," she began pointing animatedly at him. Another thing about Morrigan was when she was mad, but not going to kill you she became very expressive with her actions. "You know for a fact that I have never, and will never touch a bottle while working." With her gestures it looked like she was trying to wave down an aircraft. "You know I'm a professional and take my job very seriously. Another thing too for your information, god created whiskey so the Irish wouldn't rule the world. So you had better thank god that I don't already own your business. I have only gotten drunk once while I've worked for you, and that was because _you," _said Morrigan poking him in the chest. "Kept spiking my juice when I wasn't looking you twat." Artyom was doing his best not to smile. Most soldiers didn't like just drinking straight water day in and day out so they put juice crystals in it to make it taste better, and make it more of a treat. So most soldiers did that to stay hydrated, and usually only drank soda when they didn't have to go into the field. Morrigan had kept that habit after leaving the military and had a canteen on her belt at all times. Normally filled with some kind of cool aid or other. Artyom had discreetly kept spiking it when she needed it refilled. She thought he had been being nice. She had been wrong. She figured it out about the time she was holding onto the floor to make the room stop spinning. She had been PISSED about that one, Artyom still had a bruise from it too. "So if you have any _other_ memory lapses, I'll just feel free to correct it," said Morrigan brandishing a fist.

That worried Artyom a little bit. Besnik had been training the newest additions to the Sabres, and had used Morrigan as their sparring partner to begin with on the first day. Some of the men, and even a few women had been twice the size of Morrigan. Morrigan weighed around one hundred fifty pounds give or take. Artyom had watched a man bulging with muscle weighing he later learned two hundred and eighty pounds break off from the group and take to the mat. He had made Morrigan look like a child next to him. He had laughed in her face before they begun asking if he had gotten into the childrens sparring club by mistake. Morrigan tore him apart in the fight. She was never where he swung, and she hit exactly where it hurt the most, and she could hit damned hard if his boxing match with her was anything to go by. The man hadn't even touched her. He had ended up on the mat bruised and beaten held in a submission hold by Morrigan who didn't even appear winded. The lesson had been clear. Never underestimate someone based on their size. Always assume they are just as good at fighting as you, and don't do anything flashy or something you haven't mastered in a fight. Quick, simple, and brutal always worked the best.

Besnik was a great teacher in addition to soldier. The men who made the cut respected him, and gave him a high degree of deference considering they were all sell swords. Besnik was able to give them esprit de corps making like working for Cossack Support, and like their unit. It made them much less likely to sell out. Besnik had been a jewel of the Albanian military before it had fallen apart. Before the damned wall had fallen.

"No need for violence," said Artyom holding up his hands in mock surrender. "If you hit me I might actually become a cripple." Morrigan let out a smile of victory.

"Then say it," she demanded. "Say that you said you were a cripple." Artyom huffed in annoyance.

"Okay I might have said I was a cripple." Morrigan brandished her fist again. "Alright, alright, I did say I was a cripple." said Artyom trying to spare himself more bruises.

"Thank you love," said Morrigan sweetly. "Now come on we have an appointment to keep." With that she dragged him out of his office, only stopping for them to don bullet proof vests, and get a fresh supply of ammo. Artyom figured he was dressed well enough to go out, wearing a set of olive drab fatigue pants, and a light brown tee-shirt. He considered grabbing a jacket to cover the vest and gun, but it was too damn hot out. Artyoms combat boots clacked across the concrete of the office/hangar that was his workplace and home. He and the rest of his permanent crew slept in some of the building surrounding the main hangar. A long low building served as a barracks for Sabre hopefuls. A small heliport was on the east side of the hangar facing away from Black Lagoon Company. Speaking of which he still had to wipe them out. All he needed was an opportunity.

As they entered the bright Thai day they were greeted by Besnik calling out timings for pushups as the Sabre hopefuls clad in grey work out clothing moved up in down in time. Besnik was in front of them doing the pushups with them. Artyom noticed Angelika in the front rank doing the pushups with an air of determination about her. After her close encounter with death she had begun pushing herself to do better, to become stronger. Beznik was proud of her, and she was shaping up to be a fine recruit. She already had basic military training, so now she was only improving. She was also improving on her marksmanship. She was still the same chipper, happy, and forgetful person as before. Just with more muscle.

Artyom and Morrigan walked over to their little parking lot, and to the Jaguar. Artyom had splurged some funds on the car, to show that he had some money, and to make a better impression with clients. It was his personal car , but it was more so turning into Morrigans.

"I'm driving," said Morrigan running ahead of Artyom with the keys. She slid across the hood and got into the drivers side. It was a Jaguar made for North American consumers, so the steering column was on the left hand side. It had been funny the fist time when Morrigan had tried to be the driver only to leap into the passengers side and Artyom calmly get into the drivers seat. She had, had the look of a child who dropped their ice cream on the ground.

With a roar the Jaguar came to life and Artyom got into the passengers seat. They pulled out of the parking lot, and then turned onto the street. They drove through the wharf district which was surprisingly well up kept. Artyom looked in the rear view mirror, and saw the edge of a rifle poking out from under the back seat.

"Morrigan," asked Artyom in a conversational tone. "Why is there an assault rifle under the back seat of my car?"

"Well, um," said Morrigan looking for the right words. "You might need the extra firepower sometime."

"Morrigan, this is a city in a non war torn country. People won't just start shooting and if they do the car if bullet proof. Also there are cops around. I don't know the law on firearms here, so I might be pushing it even having an automatic pistol. We don't need an assault rifle in the car." Morrigan looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Well love if we're in a city you had better do up your seat belt."

"The cops over here don't care abou-" Morrigan slammed on the brakes, causing Artyom to smack into the dash and rebound back. * "Fist yourself you Irish whore". * Swore Artyom in Russian. Morrigan slapped him in the side of the head. "How did you understand that?" asked Artyom holding his nose and now head.

"I didn't," said Morrigan. "I only suspected and it looks like I was right."

"What happened to not letting anyone laying a finger on me?" complained Artyom.

"That excludes me," said Morrigan grinning slightly. "Now buckle up love." Artyom did as he was told.

They continued driving towards the centre of Roanupur, and Artyom was still surprised at the sheer openness of the vice in this city. People were hawking everything from knock off Prada clothing to fully automatic weapons. It was just like in Liberia. The prostitutes main customers even seemed to be police in uniform. This was exactly like Liberia. Just replace the warlords militia and self righteous causes with gangsters and the all consuming dollar and it was a perfect fit. Hell if it was like this he could walk down the main street with an RPG and no one would say boo.

Morrigan deftly weaved the luxury car in and out of traffic, using its bulk to force the Thai on scooters out of the way, and moving in between those with cars. With a myriad of honking horns and curses of course. Morrigan was an excellent driver, while Artyom was about average. She had scared him one time drifting around a corner going sixty miles an hour then weaving between two oncoming cars. Apparently Artyom had thrown up his arms to brace for the oncoming collision and had been quite pale afterwards. She had found it funny as hell. Artyom got Morrigan back by making her think he had passed out flying the MI-8 and put it into a nose dive. He pulled out of it about the time she started screaming and praying while shaking him profusely. She didn't find that nearly as funny.

The Jag pulled to a stop outside the Roanupur printing press, and they got out. The engine was still purring like a pleased tiger. Artyom really loved this car.

"You coming in love?" asked Morrigan one arm still on the steering wheel.

"Nah, I've got to make sure no one steals the car," said Artyom as he gave the Jag an affectionate pat. Morrigan shot him an annoyed look. She opened the car door and shut it with a slam. Then Morrigan began walking towards the printing office.

"Whatever, just make sure ya don't leave me here." said Morrigan dismissively. "In fact," said Morrigan walking back to the car. "I'll make sure you don't." she reached into the car and took out the keys causing the purring car to cease.

"Was that really necessary?" asked Artyom slightly annoyed.

"Yes it was, because last time we went to the city hall to get our permits you left me behind." said Morrigan accusingly.

"I thought that you went back with Besnik," said Artyom trying to defend himself.

"I said I was going to the bathroom and for you to wait for me."

"I don't remember you saying that." said Artyom baiting her. Morrigan let out an annoyed growl.

"Fine, just sit there and don't get mugged okay?" said Morrigan as she practically marched into the printing press. Artyom smiled to himself. They were going to have fun dealing with an annoyed Morrigan. Artyoms leg was beginning to get a little sore so he decided to get out and stretch. He his way to the drivers side to wait for Morrigan. The cane tapped in perfect cadence to his steps. The little bit of walking helped his leg.

Artyom cast his gaze up and down the street, and his eyes came to rest on a very shapely blonde in a small pink top, and short shorts walking down the street towards him. She had on pink sunglasses, and had her head down towards the pavement as if in deep thought. Her blonde hair was long, and came well down her back. Well maybe it was a good idea to follow Morrigan to town, thought Artyom slyly. He leaned against the car and waited, cane resting beside him. The shirt said 'just do it', on the front. Well if you insist, thought Artyom. He had a thing for blondes.

Eda was not having a good day. Her superiors at Langley wanted her to up the flow of information coming out of this cesspool called a city, and she just wanted out. She had accepted the job, because being young and stupid she had thought it was a great responsibility and honour to be put in an over seas posting. Now she realized that it had been a shit job that no one had wanted so they had passed it on to her, because they knew she would accept, which she had. She scowled in irritation. That old bitch Yolanda actually tried to make her act every bit the nun she was pretending to be. Not like Yolanda was much of a saint herself, dealing arms and now drugs. That was another fun fact she had learned working for the CIA. The American government disapproved of drugs and spent billions of dollars a year fighting it, unless they could get a cut of it. All in the name of freedom and Uncle Sam thought Eda bitterly. She still believed in what she did, still believed in the American ideals of freedom, equality, and justice for all.

She just wished that she could get out of this city. It was slowly sucking the life out of her, no matter how much she fought against it. She wanted a transfer, and had put in several transfer requests already. Her superiors had said that they would 'get back to her', Eda wasn't stupid. That meant suck it up and keep doing her job. Her scowl deepened as she went onto a new train of thought. Revy had been bitching about some new merc group setting up shop in town right next to the Lagoon offices if she had decoded Revys profanity filled message properly. She sighed, and tried to brighten up a little. It was her day off, and she was going to make the most of it.

She felt suffocated in her nuns habit, and to be in regular clothes again felt good. That was one perk of being in Roanupur. In the states she was always expected to be in a semi formal wear, because of her job in the CIA. Attending formal dinners, meetings, and working in Langley. But here it was up to her to decide what she wanted to wear and no one cared. Well except for the ludicrous amounts of lewd stares. However her glock kept them at arms length. Also she could let loose on her off days and not have to worry about her superiors finding out about her partying, sleeping in late, or goofing off sometimes. It could get very slow in Roanupur, and with only the occasional report to file or dead drop to make, it was kind of like a paid vacation. Except for the constant exposure to the worst of humanity.

Another perk in Roanupur was the money. She couldn't believe how much there was to make on side jobs. Her salary wasn't bad by any means, but the sheer amount that she could make was mind boggling. On side jobs the highest she had ever made was one hundred grand. One hundred grand! That was over a years pay for the majority of Americans, just for a single nights work. With her skills provided by Uncle Sam it was easy to make extra cash, especially when she convinced Revy to come along for the job too. The CIA probably knew about it of that she had no doubts, but they were looking the other way. As long as she wasn't compromised or sell them out they simply didn't care. It was probably why they hadn't transferred her, but the money she had saved in her private account was enough to live on in luxury for at least a decade if not more. She had screwed some people over to get some of the money, but they were criminals and that was the name of the game. Right?

Eda wondered if perhaps the city was getting to her more than she thought. She had looked down on agents who did things to line their own pockets, but when she got here it was just too good to pass up. It wasn't like she was selling out her country she reasoned with herself. It was just odd jobs here and there. She was still a loyal American...wasn't she?

Eda pushed all the negative thoughts out of her head. It was killing her good mood. The sun was shining, it was her day off and she planned on having a good time. Nothing was going to wreck it for her.

"Hey there gorgeous." Eda internally groaned. Some other poor fool was hitting on her. She had a reputation for wounding people who pissed her off and tried to get a little too friendly, so what poor bastard thought now would be a good time?

Eda did a quick analysis of the voice. It was Oxford Queens English, but it was too deep and stressed the R's too much to be a native. Probably Russian or Eastern European. . Well might as well take a look decided Eda. She looked up and saw a smiling blonde man in his late twenties or early thirties, leaning up against a Jaguar. His high cheekbones also denoted Slavic ancestry. She also took in the bullet proof vest, and pistol nestled in a shoulder holster. Not a tourist thought Eda, and he looked like he had money. Although he could be a bodyguard. The richly crafted cane and decorations at his side said otherwise. Could be good for some fun. She put on a winning smile.

"Hey yourself," said Eda smile still in place. "That your car there?" The man smiled, he thought he was seducing her. His personal confidence was astounding.

"Yeah she's all mine, was this or a Porsche, but I liked the look of this better."

"It's nice," said Eda walking up to the car. She ran a hand along it, and her eyes widened slightly in surprise behind her sun glasses. It felt exactly like the CIA armoured vans, and that meant bullet proofed. This guy must have a lot of money to reinforce a car like this, or be a part of a serious merc group. He matched the description that Revy had given her so he must be the merc with the hind. She liked the fact that her sunglasses hid the surprise in her eyes. That was another reason she wore her glasses. While she could hide just about every other tell on her body, her eyes always gave her away. They always showed what she felt. The sunglasses were her own personal shield against Roanupur.

"See anything else you like?" asked the man suggestively. He was making Eda's day, he was just so damn cocky it was funny. She decided to have a bit of fun with him.

"Well maybe," said Eda getting closer.

"And what would that be?" he practically purred. Christ this was funny.

"That cane," said Eda putting on a seductive tone. "Business or pleasure?" The change was instant in the mans demeanour. His eyes hardened and became those of a soldier as he picked up the cane, and he lost the cocky attitude.

"Injury," he said in a hard tone. He regarded the cane as if he could divine its history by looking at it. "I was shot down in 86 and broke my leg in five places. I can walk okay now without it, but if I use my left leg too long it gets weak and shaky. That's why I need this cane. It reminds me of what I was, of who I was, and what I've become." Well needless to say that killed Eda's fun. What was it about Roanupur that brought broken soldiers, criminals, and deviants here anyways? Also what was with the speech? Was he trying to impress her and make her swoon over his dark past, like some kind of goth guy? He seemed in a faraway place for a moment.

"Well I'll be seeing ya space cadet." said Eda as she waved goodbye. Not. Realizing she was leaving his cocky attitude came back full force like the tides rolling back in.

"Oh I'm sorry I'm just a little touchy about the whole injury thing ," he gave her a dazzling smile. He must get a lot of practice at this, thought Eda ruefully. "My names Artyom." He held out his hand for Eda to shake. She knew what he was "touchy" about, and there was no way he was getting anywhere near her. "If you would like I could take you out someplace nice, my treat." He was still trying to get with her.

"Well look," began Eda trying to get rid of him. "You see It's my day off, and I want to spend it away from people who'll kill my fun. So not to be rude but you're kinda wrecking my day so bye." with that she waved and began walking away again. Now nothing else will wreck my fun, though Eda determinedly. With the screech of tires a car that looked like it was from the 1950's which it probably was screeched to a halt on the street in front of Eda and two similar cars pulled up behind it. Uh fuck, thought Eda nervously, why does god hate me?

Latino men wearing bright clothing, and too much gold emerged from the cars the leader brandishing a handgun. They did not look happy. Eda was desperately trying to think of a way out of this. Was the CIA actually fed up with her side business and removing her? If that was the case no amount of negotiating was going to save her. She had heard of agents who had gone too far being removed. No one could escape Americas long reach, for it was infinite. Sometimes the agency used hired goons, other times wet teams. This looked like the former. She tried not to let the anxiety show. She could normally hide her tells, but she was getting very freaked out by this. She wasn't quite ready to die.

Artyom was going to chock the blonde up to a lost cause. He shouldn't have done that stupid fucking cane thing, but it had brought up memories of Yurri and the crash. Brought him back to Afghanistan. The oppressive heat, and comrades lost. It was a shame too, because damn was she a nice looking blonde and just the right everything everywhere. Her voice was even sexy. He watched her retreating figure as she walked away. He could still look and damn what a view. His fantasy of her somewhere more private was interrupted by the screeching of tires, and he saw some real American classics pull up. Cars weren't his thing, but if Brent were here, he would be able to name every single one of them. The man absolutely loved cars.

He saw the hot blonde take a half step back and he saw her hand twitch like she wanted to draw her glock. Good reaction, thought Artyom approvingly. Too often people only thought of pulling their gun after the fact, or would do it when it meant their death. It showed that she recognized the danger, but had the presence of mind not to draw if she didn't want to be turned into something that had once been a pretty blonde woman, but now was unrecognizable. She put up her hands in a calming gesture.

"Abrego what a surprise, so what are you doing here like this? I didn't forget to sign off on the last shipment did I?" She was trying to keep the tone light, but Artyom could just feel the anxiety in her words. Her smile looked very forced.

"Eda you fucking puta, you know exactly what this is about!" Artyom could swear he saw her face pale at his words.

"Wh-whoa calm down there Abrego there must be some kind of mistake." Her smile looked very forced now. She even looked slightly fearful.

"There's no mistake about it you catholic whore." Artyom swore he saw her hand twitch towards her pistol at those words. "You sold us faulty merchandise, and now we're in shit which means you're in shit!" Artyom was surprised to see her actually calm down at those words. What the fuck? If you sold someone bad merchandise, your ass was grass no matter how finely shaped.

"Abrego come on," Artyom heard the confidence come back into her voice as if she was facing down an irate customer at an electronics store instead of a pack of murderous mobsters. Artyom assumed they were mobsters anyways, they had the look to them. "Sometimes you get good stuff, sometimes you get bad. It's all about quality control." It looked like she was giving the company line and shrugged as if to say, what can you do? "If the factories put out shit, well that's not our fault." She tried to win him over with a smile. He was far too angry to be talked down by a pretty blonde.

"Don't give me that shit!" raged Abrego. "I can understand one or two missiles not working, but one out of every four? The FARC want my balls in a jar, and I know you fucked with the missiles!" Unbelievably she took on an offended tone. Artyom took an interest when they mentioned the FARC. Those assholes still owed him money.

"How dare you accuse me of tampering with the merchandise." She adopted a haughty posture, and continued to tie into the mobsters. "At the Rip Off Church, we pride ourselves on quality products and we deliver the goods in pristine shape as soon as we get it. If you fuck up on your end, that's your problem. There are no refunds, no trade ins, no returns, and none of your bitching." Artyom couldn't believe it. She was pushing the mobster too far and she didn't even realize it. He had learned to read people like this Abrego for the past three years day in, and day out. He wouldn't claim to be a master, but he usually knew how far he could push men like this before they snapped. Assuming he didn't get angry. He got carried away then, and usually ended up having to run for his life.

"Enough of your lies puta, I'm going to kill you to send a message to the church." Artyom saw Eda lose a little of her confidence then. "If you kill a nun you go to hell you know." Of course, because the religious card worked so well in Africa, thought Artyom sardonically. Abrego laughed in her face.

"I'm protestant, I think I'll be just fine." Abrego grinned wolfishly as he chambered a round, and his men drew their weapons. Eda started backing towards Artyom.

"Abrego baby, I'm sure Yolanda wouldn't be happy if you killed her best employee." She was getting very close to Artyom now. Fuck I'm gonna get drawn into this, thought Artyom with a hint of irritation.

"Ha, that old cow has lost people ten times as good as you. It's how we complain about the quality of the product. She won't give a shit." Eda was looking for a way out now and Artyom guessed that he was closest. She turned and flashed him a desperate smile.

"So Artyom was it? Well I've reconsidered your offer, and I've decided that I would love to go out someplace nice with you on the condition we go now. Right now." Artyom couldn't believe her gall to do this now. He crossed his arms and acted disinterested.

"I'm sorry, but you said I would kill your fun and I wouldn't want to do that. Besides," he said with his own what can you do gesture. It looks like you have a business arrangement to settle." Eda just gawked at him.

"You can't just leave me like this you heartless bastard! Whatever happened to chivalry and all that macho shit?" She really was desperate if she was doing this. Artyom put on a light smile.

"You hurt my feelings." If her jaw had been able it would have hit the sidewalk.

"Fuck your feelings, I'm gonna get shot here!"

"If I help you do I get a date out of it?" She stared disbelievingly at him.

"What? Yeah sure whatever just fucking help me." said Eda in slight desperation. Artyom stood taller in triumph. He picked up his cane and walked to the back door of the car, the cane making a light tapping sound on the asphalt.

"I'll pick you up around eight, hows that sound?" He made it look like he was getting into the back of the car, throwing his cane in first.

"You have to help me first asshole!" Screamed Eda thinking he was going to sit this one out.. Artyom figured he'd tortured her enough for one day.

"DON'T YOU FUCKING IGNORE ME YOU BITCH! Yelled out an enraged Abrego. "VEGA! ICE THIS CUNT" A particularly gold decked member brought up his pistol, Eda went for her gun. It was a race to see which of them could bring up their pistol first. Artyom was faster. He sprang from the rear of the car, and slid clear into a firing kneel. Gun level and ready to rock n roll. Morrigan had stashed an La85a2 assault rifle under the seat, with a holographic sights, extended mags, and all the bells and whistles of a custom gun. He sighted in Vega first. He didn't even think about it. Years of training in the Russian military and again under Beznik made him move more on instinct than actual conscious thought. He lined him up perfectly, and the world became smaller as he filled the cross hairs. Artyom felt the world slow and it seemed he could feel and hear everything. The sweat beading Eda's skin, the look of rage on Abregos face, the heavy breathing of the assembled mobsters. The rifle felt warm in his hands. It felt right. He saw the flash of realization in Vegas eyes, then fear. What a hell of a way to find out. Artyom pulled the trigger.

With a stuttering roar the gun came to life seeking blood. A brass stream flew from the ejector port, as their lethal cargo burst forth. On their path, unfaltering, from their course of action unstoppable. No matter any pleading or promises to call them back or give mercy. For bullets could give no mercy, they could only gave death. You couldn't offer them anything, because they only want one thing. Your life.

The rounds hit in a tight cluster centre mass causing Vega to shudder before falling back, blood flying forth. The other mobsters brought up their weapons. Artyom picked another and fired before they could bring him down. The second mobster soon shared Vegas fate. Twisting away like a scorned lover, before falling. Artyom heard the sound of a hand gun firing behind him. Another mobster fell as he tried to avenge his fallen friends, but it wouldn't be enough. Artyom stood up firing from the hip, spraying right to left, and left to right. He needed to keep their heads down.

"Get to the car!" shouted Artyom over the sound of the weapons fire. Eda went for the open doorway still firing. The mobsters dove for cover to avoid the automatic barrage of Artyoms assault rifle. Yellow flame came forth from the muzzle as it spat hot death at the mobsters. The rounds burst out windshields causing spider webbed crack to appear and pockmarked the car, forcing the metal inwards as the soft point rounds found their mark. The brass casings were hitting the ground in a clatter inaudible over the chattering of the assault rifle.

The rifle clicked dry and Artyom ducked behind the open rear door swapping mags. He hadn't had time to grab extra, but another was taped inverted to the clip in the gun so all he had to do was flip it around and keep firing. The mobsters used the reprieve to return fire. The orchestra of bangs as the mobsters opened fire was almost overshadowed by the pinging and hissing as the rounds were deflected off the armoured body of the car, and the occasional crack as they became imbedded in the bullet proof windows.

Artyom went prone as Eda began firing out the other side of the car through a slightly lowered bullet proof window. As they switched their attention to Eda causing her to withdraw her hand Artyom acted, but not before Eda wounded another one. Artyom opened up again with the rifle. again The mobsters had to take cover behind their increasingly 'holy' cars as Artyom started firing again.

A mobster opened fire with a sub machine gun trying to get at Artyom causing asphalt fragments to spray up and sting his face. Artyom grimaced and tried to line up the mobster before he actually started aiming and ended him. The bullets were walking their way towards him. A spray of red along with a portion of the mobsters skull decided to leave out the side before he had a chance to shoot Artyom. He fell to the ground in a lifeless heap. Artyom looked to the side and he saw Morrigan at the top of the concrete stairs leading to the office. Her feet were wide apart, Browning in a two handed grip and a look of grim determination upon her features. The pistol barked again, and another mobster fell.

"Cover me!" shouted Morrigan as she leapt down the steps firing the gun one handed at the mobsters as she sprinted for the Jaguar. Artyom stood and drained the last of his clip into the cars. When it ran dry he pulled out his Pernach and holding the LA85A2 to the side one handed he fired short bursts on automatic from his pistol. Eda was firing out the side window too, adding to the suppressive fire. He circled the door to the open side and prepared to jump in.

Morrigan made it to the car and yanked open the door. She practically leapt into the seat, and the car roared to life. Artyom dove into his open door, and slammed it shut behind him. With a squeal of tires the armoured Jaguar took off down the street fishtailing slightly, and rounds pinging off the outside leaving a shower of sparks and making it sound like someone was throwing baseballs at them on the inside of the car. Morrigan was not happy to say the least at the turn of events.

"Five minutes. Five bloody minutes!" Raved Morrigan as she put the car into a drift around a corner causing a frightened driver to blare his horn in anger. Eda slammed into Artyom as they took the sharp corner. They shifted to the other side of the car, pushing Eda against the opposite door as Morrigan took another sharp turn the opposite way. "I leave you alone for five minutes and you get into a goddamned shootout in the middle of the street!" She straightened out the car on another corner, and the car slowed to a more reasonable speed as she put more distance between them and the mobsters. "You're like a child, do you even know who you were shooting at?"

"No," said Artyom hoping she would drop it, but that was like hoping the sun wasn't going to rise. Morrigan looked back at him and a ruffled Eda while still driving, ignoring the road and oncoming traffic.

"You don't know who you were shooting at! They could be the most powerful people in this bloody city, and you just started a fucking war with them!" She appraised Eda with her sea coloured eyes. "Who's this tart? One of their girls?" Eda's face turned into a mixture of indignation and outright rage.

"Who are you calling a hooker, you fucking leprechaun? Go find your pot of gold bitch." Eda raised her middle finger to further show her displeasure. From there it descended into a catfight, with Artyom cowering in the corner.

"I'm calling the bitch showing everything but her internal organs to everyone she passes a slut! You blonde yank bimbo! Hoping someone will mount you like a bitch if you show them the goods up front?" said Morrigan leaning back farther over the seat continuing to ignore the blaring horns, and traffic.

"Well at least I have a body to show off you flat chested skank! Is that why you wear all that baggy clothing, so men can't see your flabby legs and fat ass? I bet you have to pay the men for sex since no one in their right mind would ever touch you." If at all possible Morrigan got even angrier. Their faces were mere inches apart as Eda finished her outburst. From there it descended into such a degree of insults and name calling, it would have made a pig farmer blush. Artyoms days as a mercenary and in the military had nothing on this. Most of the time it had been a variation of fuck you, insulting their family, or sexual ability. This outshone all of that like a supernova outshines a night light. Girls were really frickin mean.

Artyom was sitting in the corner of the car as they sped down the roadway cradling the now empty assault rifle in his hands and trying to stay out of the womens way. Wait, I'm in charge of this company I can just tell Morrigan to drop it and that will be that thought Artyom confidently. Artyom really should have thought it through first.

"Morrigan!" said Artyom in his most commanding voice. He had been one of the drill leaders in the military for his squadron, and he could make his voice sound very intimidating if necessary. "Just drop it, and watch the road. I don't pay you for this shit." Morrigan and Eda turned to him at the same instant, both looking him straight in the eye. Artyom felt a little afraid at that moment.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!" they screamed in unison. Artyom fell silent and resumed his cowering. When it was clear he wouldn't be saying anything else, they resumed their shouting match.

Artyom sat in his corner of the car and tried to pretend he was in a happy place, and not in a confined space with two angry women with guns.

Artyom looked out the windshield, and saw a large moving truck approaching from the front. It honked its horn it warning.

"Truck," said Artyom in a normal tone of voice. The two women ignored him and continued their name calling. "Truck," said Artyom more urgently a note of anxiety in his voice. Eda and Morrigan continued ignoring him still throwing insults like candy at a parade. "Truck!" shouted Artyom bracing for impact. Morrigan never looked away from her shouting match with Eda, merely turned the wheel to the side behind her and cleanly avoided the truck as it sped past them, horn blaring. Artyom checked to make sure his pants were still dry. In a fight or in the air he was fearless or damn close to it, but in situations like this he always got his fair share of it. Especially when he thought he was going to be roadkill.

With a final salvo of insults the two women turned away with a "hmphh," and it was done. Artyom looked at each of them, not believing it was actually over. Morrigan was gripping the steering wheel tightly looking straight ahead, and Eda was finding the view out the side window very interesting. They sat in silence for a few minutes, before Morrigan broke the silence.

"We'll be back at the hangar in fifteen minutes, where does your _friend _want to be booted out?" Artyom looked at Eda thinking a new shouting match was about to take place, but instead she kept quiet.

"Um Eda," began Artyom tiptoeing around the volatile atmosphere. "Where do you want us to drop you off?" Eda looked at him, and put on a sweet smile.

"Wherever you want to put me." said Eda suggestively pressing herself into him, Artyom perked up at the change into events.

Morrigan glared into the back mirror, as Eda pressed herself into Artyom. She felt a wave of jealousy and possessiveness flood through her. Artyom was a skirt chaser whether he realized it or not, but when the cards were down he was a good guy no matter how he acted. He was willing to die for any of his friends, and although he complained about it he always went the extra mile for them and her. She was his friend, and she had been through a hell of a lot more with him then this bimbo. While she didn't have claim to him per say, but she wasn't going to sit there and watch the yank bitch cuddle with him while she could do anything about it. Morrigan didn't know why she felt so angry when she saw Eda or someone else pressed into Artyom, probably because the other girlfriend he had had for about a week had tried to rob him. She saw the same thing in this one. She didn't want to say anything lest her inner emotions shine through so she decided to pretend she was just playing a joke on them. She saw Eda look at her out the corner of her eye. She was looking for a reaction. Well we'll see how she like this, thought Morrigan savagely. Two can play at that game.

"Hey Artyom," said Morrigan in a casual tone of voice.

"Yeah," said Artyom distracted by the women pressing herself into him. Morrigan felt a fresh wave of anger, but kept it out of her voice.

"You forgot your seat belt." Artyom and Eda stared at her uncomprehending, before a flash of realization spread across Artyoms face and he scrambled for his seat belt. Morrigan slammed on the brakes, causing them to slam into the back of the seat and fall in a heap on the floor. Morrigan grinned in victory and pushed on the accelerator hard. Her grin got wider as she heard a couple of grunts and thumps from the backseat. She felt self satisfied.

"Well I don't normally do _this _on a first date." said a feminine voice from the back of the car. Morrigans grin disappeared from her face. Something told her she wasn't going to like this woman.

When they got back to the hangar Artyom chatted with Eda, and got the location of the hotel she was staying at on her days off. It turned out she helped sell arms out of a church, and the Colombian Mafia were mad about a shoddy arm shipment and she thanked him for helping her out. Artyom wasn't scared of the mafia. If they pissed him off he would just get in his hind and level their strongholds. He was the leader of a merc group and no fucking gangster was going to intimidate him. If they took a potshot at him, he would lead a team of Sabres with Besnik and wipe them off the face of the Earth. A yellow taxi cab pulled to a halt on the street with a slight screech of brakes.

"Well looks like my ride is here," said Eda leaning in closer to Artyom. "Remember eight O clock, and don't be late." She gave him a kiss, and looked over his shoulder at his bodyguard. She was leaning against the car, and was giving her a death glare. Eda smiled in turn. If Morrigan didn't like her well that was too bad. Now she was going to go out with him, and little miss Irish could just sit and stew. Artyom seemed like a nice enough guy, and had actually helped her when they were horribly outnumbered. Maybe he still had a spark of humanity in him in this city of the dead. If not she could just ignore him after this. She had met her share of 'nice' guys in Roanupur only to find they had some serious skeletons in their closets. Sometimes literally. Langley shouldn't care about this as long as she didn't compromise herself. She couldn't get near Rock without Revy biting her head off, and he was the only other guy who wouldn't shoot her in the back to steal her purse or rape her if she didn't put out. She just hoped he didn't do the whole flashback thing again.

Eda walked to the car and waved bye to Artyom as she got in. Maybe the weekend would turn out to be fun after all. She just hoped Revy didn't find out right away, she was crazy sometimes even if she was one of Eda's only friends. She didn't want another one of her days to end in a hail of bullets this weekend. She wondered if Roanupur had changed her as the taxi pulled away.

Artyom turned and walked to Morrigan who was leaning against the damaged Jaguar with a disinterested look on her face.

"Ready to go see if anythings changed while we've been gone?" asked Artyom as he came to a stop in front of her.

"Yeah sure," said Morrigan rather sharply.

"Okay let's get going," said Artyom heading back to the hangar. Morrigan walked after him, her displeasure obvious. She must still be mad with me, thought Artyom. Well he would just have to find a way to make it up to her. Hell hath no fury like an irate Irish woman thought Artyom ruefully.

Not much had changed except for Angelika had gone into town having gotten over her initial fear of the Lagoon incident, and the Sabre trainees were taking a break. Jacques had called a few pilots in, so Artyom spent the next couple of hours interviewing them. He really didn't need any other pilots.

Angelika had gotten Brent to give her a ride into town, and had done some shopping while he went to pick up some new medical equipment. Angelika liked Brent, he was a nice guy and he almost knew as much about how cars worked as Angelika knew about aircraft. Almost, she smiled to herself. She didn't like to brag, but she was one of the best mechanics around. Artyom was... okay at what he did. The first thing she had done after he had hired her was fix the cannon controls that he had slaved to the pilots command. It had worked, but it needed polish and she had done just that. Artyom could keep the hind running and he knew what he was doing, but his work needed work so to speak.

Angelika was a little sore from the training with Besnik, and her bags were getting heavy so she walked into a bar to get a drink and rest her legs. Her hair was in a ponytail and she was wearing a tropical pair of shorts and a striped sleeveless shirt. Her sandals felt nice to wear after so long in boots, and heavy socks.

The inside of the bar was slightly dark, and it smelled strongly of alcohol. There was a lot of people in for the time of day, probably because of the heat. Angelika didn't feel threatened at all though, she had her pistol and she could defend herself if she needed to. She wasn't going to be helpless ever again.

The bartender seemed surprised to find a perky young woman with a smile on her face sitting on a stool in his bar. A woman who just stared at him with the same smile on her face without saying anything.

"Can I help you?" asked the bartender slightly unsure of what was going on.

"Yup," said Angelika cheerily. She then proceeded to sit on the stool and not say anything. The bartender proceeded to stare at her and Angelika stared back.

"Do you want something to drink?" asked the bartender wondering if the woman was all there.

"Mmmhmmm," said Angelika.

"What will it be?" asked the bartender realizing he needed to keep asking the questions.

"An orange juice," said Angelika still chipper as always. The bartender looked at her like she had just asked for goats blood.

"This is a bar you know," said the bartender.

"I know," said Angelika. "Do you not have any?"

"No I have some it's just that most people order a drink, drink to put it in. You know alcohol."

"I don't like alcohol," said Angelika simply.

"Alright one orange juice coming up, that will be twelve baht." said the bartender trying to keep the conversation from getting side tracked. Angelika reached into her purse and pulled out the wallet inside. She made the mistake of accidentally showing off her the stuffed contents in the process. Several patrons eyed it hungrily.

"Here you go," said Angelika handing over the money. Once she got her drink she picked a table near the back of the room and relaxed enjoying her drink. Angelika got a look of triumph on her face. She had just figured out why the electronics on the hind were overheating after prolonged use. Artyom had modified the hind putting in a stronger engine recently with a superior supercharger and hadn't thought to put in stronger cooling fans. He could be so clueless sometimes. She didn't notice several other people get up and follow her to her table.

She looked up as a trio of footsteps came to a halt in front of her table. A larger Thai man held his hand out palm facing up. Angelika shook his hand.

"Hi my names Angelika, it's nice to meet you." said Angelika with a genuine smile on her face. The Thai man and his friends looked surprised and confused at Angelika's handshake. The Thai man pulled his hand away roughly and lowered his eyebrows in irritation.

"No you wallet," said the man in broken English.

"What about it?" asked Angelika perplexed.

"Me want it." said the man thrusting out his hand again.

"Well it's mine, so you can't have it." said Angelika like she was correcting someone on a simple mistake. One of the mans friends laughed at him, but he silenced him with a glare. Now he was getting angry. He grabbed the front of Angelika's shirt and pulled her forwards.

"No dumb bitch, you give wallet now!" Angelika for a moment was back in the Lagoon offices with that woman Revy. She felt an intense fear build as she remembered that day. She no longer saw the Thai man, but Revy. Not this time, she swore to herself. This wasn't going to happen again. Angelika drew back her fist, and a punch for all she was worth. The punch struck Revy square in the jaw, and Revy turned back into the Thai man as he staggered back. Now he was pissed. He threw a series of his own punches and one got through. It hit Angelika square in the nose not breaking it, but drawing blood.

Her hands flew up to her nose, and another punch this time to the stomach drove her to her knees. Blood was leaking past her hands and she had tears in her eyes from the hit to her nose. Wasn't it Besnik who said you could make someone's eyes water by hitting them in the nose? One of the other men, a Chinese man took her gun from her while she was on the ground. The Thai man took the gun from him and put it to Angelika's head. Why did this keep happening to her? Thought Angelika absently. She really had to stop going out alone.

"Whore, you die bad. Could give money now die instead." Angelika shrank a little at the words. She wasn't a whore. Before the man could pull the trigger a new voice entered the scene.

"Why don't we just let the lady go huh?" The trio of men looked towards the new voice. It came from an Asian looking man wearing a boonie hat and amber coloured aviators hooked onto the neckline of his shirt. He sounded like he was American, and he had a large automatic pistol on his hip. Angelika looked over hopefully.

The Thai man glared angrily at him. "This no you problem. You go way is best for you." The man walked forwards his hands up in a nonthreatening fashion.

"Well normally I would agree with you, but when you start hitting women," he nodded in Angelika's direction. "Well then it becomes my problem." He stopped a few steps away from the Thai man holding the gun. "So how about you just take her wallet and let her go huh?"

"But it's mine," protested Angelika her voice slightly distorted from her bloody nose. The man looked down towards her.

"I know ma'am, but I'm trying to help you out here." The Thai man wasn't having any of it.

"No she hit, now die. You come you die." He pointed the gun towards the man with the boonie hat in a with a threatening gesture. He took a half step forward.

"Well it looks like we do have a problem after all now don't we?" Before the Thai man could react the man with the boonie hat knocked the gun to the side causing it to discharge into the floor. The gunshot caused the other patrons in the bar to draw their own weapons. With a hard elbow to the head, the Thai man went down. The Chinese man lunged out with a knife and slashed out in a wide swing. The man with the boonie hat was able to grab his forearm and wrest control of the knife away, but took a shallow cut to his arm. He turned the knife on its wielder and stabbed it into his shoulder causing him to fall with a cry of pain. The last member of the group, an Australian pulled out a revolver and brought it to bear on the man with the boonie hat. He was a fraction too slow. The heavy 70 government model pistol barked out loud twice. The Australian was pitched backwards, two new holes in his chest. He hit the ground with a wet thud. The Chinese man went for a hide away gun and received a bullet for his troubles. His head being forced down by the heavy .45 calibre round.

The man with the boonie went over to Angelika and helped her up. "Are you alright miss?" he asked with a note of concern in his voice. Angelika nodded.

"Yes thank you, my name's Angelika." She stuck out a bloody hand for a handshake. He shook it hesitantly, trying to avoid the blood. Angelika still had the other hand covering her nose which was still flowing freely.

"Geoffrey," he said shaking her hand. Geoffrey Kuribayashi Dees. Angelika looked at him as if sizing him up.

"You're short," she finally said. Indeed he was a couple of inches shorter than Angelika was.

"I guess so," he said taken off guard by the seemingly random statement.

"Are you a pilot?" asked Angelika again prodding.

"Yes, how did you know?"

"The aviators," said Angelika as if it was the most simple thing in the world. "Every pilot I've ever met has a pair."

"Well I guess I'm part of the club then Aren't I?" said Geoffrey trying to turn it into a joke.

"What club?" asked Angelika curiously.

"Never mind."

"Do you want a job? Artyom's looking for more pilots, and I think you would be great for it."

That caught his interest. "Do they fly helicopters? Huey's especially."

"Yup we've got one of those, and we fly mostly only helicopters." said Angelika brightening up at the prospect of hiring a new worker herself.

"Well then lead the way," said Geoffrey holstering his pistol.

"Great," said Angelika handing him her bags. "Follow me." with that she took off out the door and left a very confused man standing in the centre of a room. Angelika came running back. "Forgot something," she said in her cheery voice. She brought her leg back and booted the Thai man in the ribs as hard as she could. That elicited a groan of pain from said man on the floor. She then reached down and picked up her pistol putting it away. "Come on," she said pulling Geoffrey behind her. With that they left the bar and headed to Cossack Support Headquarters.

"What the fuck just happened?" asked a confused patron in the bar. The bartender just shrugged.

Artyom was sitting behind his desk and looking at the recruit that he might higher. Geoffrey Dees, former United States Marine Corps helicopter pilot, seven years of active military service, and participated in Operation Desert Storm during the Gulf War. Plenty of time on the Huey and twin Huey platforms as well as a little on the UH-60 Black Hawk. Discharged in 92 and after that tried to make it as a merc. He did much of what Artyom did, only in South America. After the loss of his helicopter in a bad job he became bankrupt and began travelling ending up in Roanupur in his office. He was a perfect hire, he would keep quiet about the darker side of Cossack Support and he had discipline. Even still he didn't want to hire him. With a gentle prodding from Jacques he had agreed to it. You simply couldn't argue with that man.

Besnik had hovered over Angelika when she had returned cleaning up and asking if she was okay. She had said she was fine and it was all thank to Geoffrey in her usual chipper voice. Besnik had given her an orange juice and listened to her story as Geoffrey went to be interviewed. He had the job and was now eating with the rest of the Sabres and another couple of pilots that Artyom had thought trustworthy. He needed a few more, but all in good time.

"Artyom I have some information that may be of interest to you," said Jacques entering his office and stopping a polite distance away from his desk.

"What is it?" asked Artyom pretending to be busy, but in reality playing Star Craft.

"The Black Lagoon Company has accepted a contract to retrieve an artifact from a sunken U-boat." That took Artyoms full attention. "They will be out of range of the Hind, but the first of the aircraft have arrived including a float plane. If you wish to destroy them, this will be the perfect opportunity."

"Are any of the Sabre's ready for active combat?" Jacques shook his head.

"Besnik says it is too soon for them to be in the field. If you require a strike team I would suggest yourself, Morrigan, Besnik, and the new hire Geoffrey the Asian Caucasian." Another thing Artyom had learned dealing with Jacques was that Asians were indeed racist, but mostly just against each other. Jacques himself hated the Japanese apparently along with a lot of Asia for reasons related to world war two, and Imperial Japan.

"That sounds good," said Artyom grinning on the inside like a wolf. "I'll go tell Besnik the good news."

"Very well," said Jacques. "I will retire to Rowan's gentlemens club for the evening. Have a wonderful date with miss Eda." With that Jacques left for his night on the town and Artyom went to go find Besnik. He found his reassembling an AKM.

"Besnik, I have good news," said Artyom walking over to him. Besnik continued assembling the rifle. "We have an opportunity to wipe out the Lagoon Comapany without it tracing back to us. Wanna come?" Besnik turned to face him, an assembled rifle in his hand, and a loaded clip in the other.

"I'll come," said Besnik. "But you have to promise me one thing."

"What's that?" asked Artyom curiously.

"This Revy, the one who threatened my Angelika. When the time comes she's mine. I am the one to kill her, no one else. Promise me this and I will come." Artyom had expected something like this, but it still surprised him for Besnik to say it so openly.

"She's all yours old timer, as soon as we get to them on their job." Besnik nodded in approval and bid Aryom farewell. Artyom walked away, and went to go and prepare for his date. Besnik turned back to his table and inserted the firing pin into the AKM.

"Soon Revy, you will see why they called me the Demon of Albania, the terror of the night." Besnik said to himself barely above a whisper. With a clack a magazine was slammed into the rifle. The bolt was racked back and a round was chambered. He was ready for blood, and he would be the one to spill it.

AN: Well this turned out pretty good. Angelika grew a bit in a couple of days, and there is a new member to Cossack Support. (You're welcome Chaotic Crazy) This will be the last OC added, because the original cast need some love too. Balalaika will be showing up in the next couple of chapters, Morrigans a little jealous, and Eda's finally showing up.(I knew there was a reason I put her as a major character) Revy's in for some trouble on the NAZI boat, and expect a pissed off Albanian paratrooper to be hunting her down. Also Revy will start to mellow out in the next few chapters. The plot should pick up after this, and I've broken the 60 000 word mile stone. And by that I mean I kicked it in the teeth as I ran by. The Lagoon Crew will be the focus of the next chapter, so I will try to write mostly about them, and keep my OC's from completely jacking this story. Again thanks for reading and please review. (Searches frantically on the ground) I need my fix man!


	8. Cock Fight

Chapter 8 Cock Fight

AN: Well I'm approaching the 100 000 word mark, so yay for me. I'm doing my best to get into the characters heads, and figure out how they work. I think I might have screwed up on Eda a bit, but she seemed flirty so meh. This chapter should have more Black Lagoon in it, and I'll try to keep the focus on it. I've been told that I need a beta reader, so if someone would like to, give me a review or PM me and tell me how it works. Also I told my friend and he didn't make fun of me so that's good. Also Alex if you're reading this. "Tonight YOU." Aqua teen hunger force is funny as hell. But seriously, YOU.

"Goddamn it, why the fuck do all our jobs keep screwing up?" Asked an irritated Revy. Rock was beginning to think this was her standard temperament. She was referring to their latest job which had been a trap, and ended in Revy herself taking on and destroying six pirate boats single handed. It had seemed that for a short time, Revy had been a goddess of death. In all her violent and bloody glory, she had been untouchable, a harbinger of doom and destruction. That had been her world, in a dark place of death she thrived. Like a lion on the savannah, or a great white in the sea. She was an apex predator. However in a hot and stuffy building on a waterfront, not so much. Balalaika had seen to it that Dutch's 'friend' who had given them the contract had met a rather violent end. Rock didn't know how to feel about that.

"First it's that limey bastard not once, but twice!" continued Revy holding up two fingers, leaning forward in her chair. "Then it's that bastard Chin who tried to have us iced by those wannabee pirates." Revy leaned back in her chair and sighed. "It's been a real crappy month, you know?" She pulled out a cigarette and lit it, inhaling deeply and exhaling slowly. She seemed to calm down a bit after that. Revy looked at Rock, and cracked a small smile. "You know," began Revy in a light tone. "I'm starting to think you're bad luck Rock. Ever since we took you on we've been attacked by two gunships, gotten into a shootout in the Yellow flag twice in under a month, and then finally to top it all off we get jumped by another group of pirates." Revy exhaled another cloud of smoke, then grinned wolfishly. "But that's all fine by me, I haven't had this much fun in a long time. I guess keeping you around will keep things interesting huh?" She tossed Rock a beer after cracking one for herself. "As long as we're still kicking, we might as well enjoy the simple things in life you know?" Revy opened her beer, and sucked up the fizz that bubbled out before taking a couple of deep gulps. Rock didn't know if this was a good time or not, but he had been putting it off for a while so he figured now was a good a time as any. Probably better, considering that Revy was in a good mood.

"Hey Revy," began Rock hesitantly, wondering if he was making a mistake. The tight feeling in his gut made sure to tell him how nervous he was about it. Revy eyed him with an inquisitive look.

"Yeah, what is it?" asked Revy only half paying attention.

"A couple of days ago," said Rock unsure of himself. "When that girl came over to introduce herself, why were you so vicious to her?" A scowl appeared on Revy's face at Rock's question. She let out a forceful puff of smoke before she answered.

"Listen Rock, if you think for even one second that, that was vicious this city will fucking eat you alive. I was going to kill her, yes. Do you want to know why?" Without waiting for Rock to answer Revy continued. "She was part of the group that almost killed us twice. In this city if you take that lying down, everyone's going to think that you're soft and go for your throat. This isn't the good christian turn the other cheek bullshit you're so used to. This is the law of the jungle here where only the strongest survive, and the weak end up being used or used up. It's how we stay on top, and how we stay alive. So before you try and accuse me of being too _mean _in a situation like that, just try to remember that you're in a very different world now. My world." Revy finished, by leaning back in her chair, her cigarette held in front of her face causing the smoke to drift up lazily as she held Rock in a steady gaze. Her eyes were devoid of any type of emotion you could ever recognize. "Just remember Rock," said Revy pulling out one of her Beretta's. "In this city this," said Revy waving the pistol slightly. "This is the only code people live by. This is power." Rock looked down as if he were contemplating all that Revy had said.

"It seems unreal, that we would need to live like that," said Rock in an almost mournful tone. "I always thought that people had moved past that, that we were above that. To know that in the end we're no better than rabid dogs in the way we act. Turning on each other over the slightest profit or advantage. Sometimes it makes me lose faith." Revy groaned ever so slightly.

"Could have also been that I was fucking pissed off that day with a killer hangover, so quit being so morbid all the time. Even in a place like Roanupur it's not all that bad. You just mind your own business, keep your gun close, use your head, and you'll end up just fine. Revy let out a friendly grin. Hell you might even enjoy yourself from time to time so quit looking at the bad all the time, you're starting to get me depressed." Revy finished her statement by taking a slice of pizza out of a nearby box and began eating a piece enthusiastically. Rock forced a short laugh as he responded.

"Yeah, I guess you're right, I am being a little depressing aren't I?" Rock rubbed the back of his neck as he spoke.

"Yeah, well you'll get used to it and survive, or don't and die. You can't make everyone get along, just because you think it's the right thing for them to do." Revy let out an annoyed sound as some pizza sauce slopped on her shirt. "Ah goddamn it," said Revy as she wiped at it with a napkin while holding her pizza slice in her other hand. It was at that time, that Dutch made his entrance.

"Rock, Revy we got a new job to do." He was still wearing his sunglasses, flak jacket, and olive drab pants. Rock wondered if he just had a lot of sets of them like he had of his dress clothes or if he just didn't like to change. The fact that he didn't cause everyone to gasp at the stench led credence to the former. Especially in the Roanupur heat where it normally hovered around thirty degrees Celsius. On nice days it was around twenty five.

"This one actually going to get us money, or just fucked over again?" asked Revy still wiping at the stain on her shirt.

"Real money this time Revy," Dutch assured her. "Even got us some gear for the job," said Dutch as he brought in some scuba gear. The very same gear that Rock had been looking at earlier that day. He set it down with a clatter on the floor. "You said you could scuba dive, right Rock?" asked Dutch.

"Well yeah, but I only did it once with my company. Even then I wasn't that great at it." Dutch waved off his protests.

"It's alright, all you really have to do is help Revy search. She'll make sure you don't drown or get shot." Said Dutch trying to ease Rocks fears.

"I'm not baby sitting him," said Revy wetting the napkin with her tongue and continuing to rub at the stain.

"Wait," began Rock with slight disbelief. "If I was going to drown you'd help me, right?" Revy just kept rubbing at the stain in her shirt. "Right?" asked Rock in a slightly higher voice. Revy shrugged noncommittally and continued wiping. She let out a growl of frustration.

"This goddamned stain just won't fucking come out. I need to go change." Revy got up tossing the napkin on the table and heading to go and grab one of her spare shirts she kept at the office. Which was undoubtedly another black tank top. It was the only shirt Rock had ever seen her wear. Rock looked at Dutch pleadingly.

"Don't worry," said Dutch. "As long as you don't piss her off she'll make sure you make it back in one piece."

"That's what I'm afraid of," said Rock. It really was too easy to make Revy angry at you.

"So police chief Watsup, what can I do for you this fine day?" asked Artyom to the overweight Thai police officer. Seriously why were so many cops overweight, weren't they supposed to be able to run people down? Watsup didn't look like he would run unless he was going after a twinkie. even then he would probably get a couple of his subordinates to go after it, like the two he had standing behind him in Artyoms office. Morrigan was behind Artyom, pistol worn brazenly on her hip and leaning up against the rear wall watching the proceedings with great interest. Jacques was seated to his right newspaper in his lap, still folded in a tight wrap. Always folded tight.

"I believe you know why I'm here," said Watsup cutting straight to business. "Your...transport company could use some more protection you know? This is a dangerous city despite our tremendous efforts to clean out any and all criminal elements. I could give you that protection." So he wants money realized Artyom. For a second there he had been worried that he was dealing with an honest cop. Foolish mistake, he really had to stop making it. He would have to let Watsup set the pace though. If Artyom called him corrupt to his face by asking how much he wanted, it could offend him and he might levy charges or even arrest him. People were odd like that.

"We would be grateful to have a friend amongst the fine law enforcement of this city," cut in Jacques. "If we could have your support, and assurances that our business could operate without fear of interference and you give us warning or different legislation coming to pass, we would be very grateful." Damn was Jacques smooth thought Artyom.

"It's nice to meet people in this city, who understand the difficulties that new businesses face and the persecution by some of the locals to foreigners. I wouldn't want you to get shut down simply for what you do. Especially if you prove to be contributing members of the community." Artyom had to admit, for an overweight cop, Watsup was very good at this, he knew how to get a bribe without outright saying it and Jacques spoke his language.

"Yes, people in our profession usually do come under unnecessary scrutiny," said Jacques as if he was saying it really was a shame, and not competent government officials doing their jobs correctly. "We would indeed like to contribute to this fine city, but we simply do not know where to begin. Mr. Watsup, would you know of any charities that we could donate to, or self improvement project corporations that could use a regular donation? After all if we are going to be living in this fine city, it would be nice to make it more agreeable for everyone. Having friends in public service is always essential, and we like to show our gratitude to our friends. In my experience, when the community receives proper funding and is compensated for what it provides, all parties are happy. Would you not agree Mr. Watsup?" This was a dance around corruption, and Jacques was doing the waltz with the police chief. A slight smile made its way to Watsups face, and he began nonchalantly wiping his sunglasses.

"I may know of a few," began Watsup. "I could handle the donations for you on behalf of the city. I do sit on the city council, and I'm sure I could make sure the money goes exactly where it is supposed to." Jacques nodded in agreement.

"I do hope this becomes a lasting friendship, that leaves us both happy with the results. Now Mr. Watsup." Said Jacques with a seemingly genuine voice of pleasure. "Would you like to go for a walk while we discuss the proper amount to donate? After all, we want to make sure we give enough to ensure a difference. You're help and friendship in this matter would not be forgotten." The bullshit was so thick, you couldn't cut it with an acetylene torch.

"I have a figure in mind that would be adequate," said Watsup rising. "But I want to make sure that I'm not asking too much for the size of your business. Shall we continue this over drinks?"

"I believe so, replied Jacques. We have a small lounge in one of the outer buildings with some twelve year old scotch that I believe has been waiting for just such an occasion." Watsup looked like a pleased cat.

"That would be just fine I think. If you would be so kind to lead the way, we can discuss this in further detail."

"But of course," said Jacques using his French charm. "I look forward to it." He gestured to the door with his arm. "Shall we?" Watsup rose, and headed out the door with Jacques and the police officers close behind.

"That old codger is as smooth as a babies arse," said Morrigan after they left.

"That he is," said Artyom approvingly. "So you ready for the transport job on Sunday Morrigan?"

"Yeah love, so just how much are we getting anyways for it?" Asked Morrigan curiously.

"Three hundred grand," said Artyom appreciatively. Morrigan raised her eyebrows slightly.

"That's a lot for one helicopter shipment of guns," said Morrigan as she walked over to Artyoms desk and sat down on it.

"It is, but there is also greater risk here of jail time and greater risks mean more money." Artyom put on a wide smile. "Now, I don't think the old war bird's going to see any action for any less that a million a job."

"I guess people complain more here about gunships blowing stuff up then in Africa, right love," said Morrigan punching him playfully in the arm.

"No they complained about it in Liberia, they just couldn't do shit about it." Artyom let out a chuckle. "Won't have the same luck here though, too much attention and the military's not on my side. Give and take I suppose, the money's better even if there are fewer jobs. Can't just blow away tribesmen around here on a whim." Morrigan let out a bit of a forced chuckle as Artyom let out a real one. She didn't like this Artyom. This was Artyom the mercenary who was only concerned with his business and profit. Not Artyom the soldier who would lay down his life for a friend or throw himself in front of someone to protect them. Like he had done for her. Like he had done for Eda, even if she was a no good blonde bimbo. She remembered a couple of days ago when they had been walking down the street and had seen an elderly couple being robbed. Artyom had looked down the alley and said, "well that's tough." and kept on walking. Morrigan had wanted to help, she had been able to, but Artyom had just pulled her along. Morrigan had tried to ignore the pair of gunshots that had come afterwards. She enjoyed the skirt chasing soldier/playboy Artyom to the callous mercenary he could be. He could be childish and caring at times putting people above himself, and at others it was like he was made out of stone. "You ready for the job tonight Morrigan," asked Artyom suddenly.

"Yeah I'm ready, but when are we going?"

"Well if all goes well, sometime after nightfall. There's a good chance that they'll be gone, but we just can't get to them with the hind at that range. We've bribed a fisherman with a satellite phone to call us when they reach the sunken U-boat, and tell us when they leave. I would like to go in the float like we've planned, but if not we'll get them with the hind on their way back." Artyom smiled and snapped his fingers. "We'll get them at night just like that. We've got both night vision and infra red. Though if the original plan works, we swim up to the boat in the middle of the night, plant C4, bugger off and... BOOM!" exclaimed Artyom throwing up his arms to simulate the explosion and making secondary explosion, and gunfire noises with his mouth. Morrigan laughed genuinely this time. This was the childish Artyom she enjoyed to be around, this was the man who she had agreed to protect.

The sun made the water sparkle in the South China Sea, as the Lagoon Company torpedo boat sped through the water. The sea spray was cool and the smell was captivating. The wind pulled like a thousand tiny hands at Rocks clothes on deck. He felt a stirring of something deep in his chest. It was freedom. It was independence of his old monotonous job, and the power to shape his life the way he wanted to. It was invigorating. It was the ultimate release. It would have been more invigorating had he not been trying to learn how to tie the knots apparently necessary to be a sailor. Despite the fact they were on a metal diesel powered torpedo boat.

"No, no like this," said an increasingly frustrated Revy demonstrating how to make the knot that Rock had been trying and failing to learn for the past fifteen minutes. All in all she was becoming more patient and tolerant towards him. Also she had cut down on the swearing. Revy showed Rock again, twisting, winding, and looping the rope in intricate patterns. "Think you can manage that?"

"Uh yeah," said Rock sure that he couldn't. He did try though, and it looked like he got it.

"That's good," praised Revy. "Let me see how it holds up." she then took the rope from Rocks hands, and pulled on it. It unravelled quickly. Revy actually looked let down for a second. "Well I guess you won't be tying any of the rigging lines any time soon. You really fucking suck at this."

"Yeah, sorry," said Rock apologizing.

"Well can't expect some pampered corporate suit to be able to do any real goddamned work around here," said Revy chuckling at her own joke. "So what did you grow up in? Quiet suburbia, white picket fence, family dog and all that shit?"

"Pretty much," said Rock. "But I always felt pressured no matter what I did. My older brother was the brains of the family and he always got all the attention. My parents pretty much wrote me off as a lost cause after I failed the entrance exam first time through in university. They lowered their standards for me after that and I think they half expected me to end up flipping burgers. My brother aced that test, and graduated in the top three of his class. He now works for the Japanese government developing new ideas for living spaces, since Japan is running out of room. He actually runs his own department." Rock lowered his tone of voice. "My parents actually looked surprised when I did get accepted into university and got my degree. I didn't win any awards, so I didn't get any praise. Not even a well done or we're proud of you. It was like I had met their minimum expectations and that I should be grateful that they were even still talking to me." Revy eyed Rock cooly supporting herself on her elbows before leaning farther back and answering him. Eyes closed like she had just gotten a headache.

"Sounds like your parents were first grade assholes," said Revy pinching the bridge of her nose. "Shit, if I would have gone to university all the people in my neighbourhood would have died of a fucking heart attack. Hell they would have been surprised if I'd finished high school."

"Why didn't you finish high school," asked Rock trying to make conversation.

"Well for one, it really wasn't my thing," said Revy. Rock could understand that, some people just didn't like sitting in a classroom. If he was perfectly honest it hadn't really been his either. "For another, I killed a cop." That struck Rock like a hammer blow. He stared at Revy with his mouth slightly open. If she didn't finish high school, and she killed a cop, how old would that make her when she killed him? Fifteen, sixteen? Revy noticed Rocks look, and a mask of anger came over her features.

"Don't you dare look at me like that." snapped Revy. I didn't have the same pampered fucking life you did. Did you ever have to wonder where your next meal was coming from? Did you ever have to worry about your landlord kicking your ass to the curb because you couldn't pay your rent? Well guess what genius, I did. I stole, cheated, swindled, and killed to stay alive. I did pretty much everything people say is wrong, just so I wouldn't starve or freeze to death. So before you get all righteous and up on your fucking high horse, just remember. You don't know shit about how the rest of us have to live. I did what I had to, to survive. You never had to worry about any of that. You have daddy issues? Well woopty fucking do, I would have liked to actually met my dad and not get the shit kicked out of me by some bastard cop." Rock had to look away from her furious gaze.

"Sorry," he said meekly.

"Better be fucking sorry," said Revy harshly. They sat in silence for a while, the only sound accompanying them was the steady thrum of the engine, and the spray of water. Revy exhaled a puff of smoke sharply from her cigarette. "Fuck it, just forget it okay Rock?"

"Yeah, I guess I brought up some bad memories." said Rock, Revy waved it off.

"It's in the past, and it's going to stay there. Just focus on the job, and we can get back in time for some drinks." Revy sighed in frustration. "Goddamn I hate this."

The thrum of the engine began to decrease, and the boat began to slow down. The sea spray died down to just a few ripples breaking across the bow and trailing off the sides of the ship. The engine went to a deep purr, and Dutch came out of the cabin.

"Well you guys ready to go for a swim?" asked Dutch in good spirits.

"Yeah we're ready Dutch," said Revy. "And as long as this pansy doesn't drown we should be fine." she said jerking her thumb in Rocks direction.

"Well I've got a surprise from you Revy, courtesy of Balalaika." Revy perked up at this.

"Really? Well what the hell is it Dutch, don't hold out on me." Dutch let a small smile slip, as he brought the 'surprise' out from behind his back. Revys face lit up like a child on Christmas morning.

"Is that an underwater rifle?" asked Revy excitedly grabbing the rifle.

"It's something from Balalaikas homeland, that she thought would come in handy for this job." Answered Dutch.

"This is too fucking cool," exclaimed Revy sighting down the rifle, and aiming it at imaginary targets. "I can't wait to test this out."

"If all goes well on this job, you won't need to." said Dutch calmly. "I don't know if the scuba suits I got you are one hundred percent safe, so if you start having any problems head back to the boat immediately."

"Yeah, yeah we know." said Revy brushing off Dutch's concerns. "We know the drill."

"Well get suited up, cause we have some artifacts to recover." said Dutch.

"Will do Dutch," said Revy throwing Rocks suit at him and getting her own. This promised to be a fun job.

"You sure this is a good idea love?" asked an uncertain Morrigan on the roof of the main hangar of Cossack support. It was a flat roof, with a door for access and a few ventilation shafts off to the side.

"Positive," said Artyom grinning ear to ear. "In fact Beznik was the one who suggested it."

"That's what I'm afraid of," said Morrigan staring apprehensively at the Kornet anti-tank missiles set up on the roof. Beznik whether he admitted it or not was still murderously angry about what had happened to Angelika and Morrigan was sure that he wasn't thinking clearly about this. There was a team of Sabre trainees manning the anti tank weapons, and Besnik was instructing them on the proper use of said missiles. "You know that we're going to get in trouble for this." said Morrigan trying to get another one of Artyoms ideas to get nipped in the bud.

"Us. Get in trouble?" said Artyom putting on a show of mock shock and disbelief. "But we're just an honest aviation company. We don't have illegal weapons, especially not anit-tank missiles." finished Artyom smiling so hard that Morrigan thought his face was going to split in half. "Or at least not as many in a minute. Shall we watch the fireworks, my beautiful Irish princess?" Teased Artyom. Morrigan reddened at his words, and she felt her face flush.

"W-well I guess, but we really shouldn't be doing this. And don't call me princess!" said Morrigan pointing, "I hate being called that." It was a desperate cover attempt.

"Of course you do," said Artyom. Turning to Bezik he said, "you guys ready yet?"

"Just getting the range now sir," said Beznik looking through the rangefinder of the Kornet. "Okay listen up men," said Beznik turning to the Sabres. "Because I'm not going to say this twice. You've all been doing well in your training and I'm proud of you. However if you manage to miss with this, I'm going to boot you in the ass so hard you're children will have trouble shitting. If you can't hit the broadside of a building with this, then obviously you've chosen the wrong career path, and you are hopeless individuals." There was a round of laughter from the assembled Sabre trainees. "Just remember," said Beznik. "Keep your eyes on the target, and not on the missile. It's going where you're pointing, and no where else. Also since it's such a large target, try and aim for tricky shots like through a window. And remember one thing," said Beznik pausing. All assembled Sabres gave him their full attention. "Have fun," said Beznik managing to keep a straight face. The Sabres however went through another round of laughter. They went to their mounted missile launchers.

"Range three hundred metres," called out one of the spotters. Artyom and Morrigan put on goggles and ear protection.

"Release safeties," called out Beznik. With a series of clicks, the missiles were armed. "This range is now live," said Beznik. "Commence fire on your own time." There was a brief pause, before four Kornet missiles were launched, with a burst of flame and the smell of propellant. The back blasts kicking up dust and sand creating a brief wind storm. The missiles leapt forth and streaked towards their targets jockeying for position as if wanting to be the first one to strike. The explosions were heard clearly even through the ear protection. The first missile struck the outer wall of the Lagoon Company building in a large fireball, blowing out the east wall effortlessly. The other missiles streaked inwards, detonating and turning it into a hellish bonfire. Almost as if devouring the building. Thick black smoke poured into the air. The last missile found the reserves of high octane fuel, as well as some explosive warheads. The building exploded violently sending sheet metal, and wood splinters in all directions. When the smoke cleared, it was still burning fiercely, just spread out for a few hundred feet in every direction. The building directly across from what had been the Lagoon Company Dock Office was also heavily damaged and burning. The Lagoon building was gone.

"You have to admit that was cool." said Artyom.

"I guess it was pretty cool," conceded Morrigan. As pieces of flaming debris continued to fall from the sky.

"That's the spirit." said Artyom patting her on the back.

"Although we might want to hide the missile launchers, for when the police arrive." said Morrigan in a rational tone of voice. Artyom paused.

"Yeah that would probably be a good idea," said Artyom eyeing the still smoking missile launchers.

"Trust me love, it is." When the police questioned Artyom about what had happened, he said that he had absolutely no idea what had caused the Lagoon building to just suddenly explode. Watsup received a fat envelope that day, and Artyom was still on schedule for the planned operation to take out the Lagoon Company personnel later that night. Vengeance would be sweet.

Revys head perked up like she had heard something.

"What is it?" questioned a suited up Rock in a black and purple scuba suit.

"I don't know," said Revy thoughtfully. "I just got a feeling that something happened that will end up really pissing me off." She shrugged her shoulders. "Probably nothing though."

"Okay." said Rock. "Well can you check and make sure my suit's on right?" Revy rolled her eyes and walked over to rock. Her scuba flippers making a slapping sound on the deck.

"Stop worrying Rock, I'm not actually going to let you drown." said Revy as she checked the seals and air flow into Rocks suit. "Well looks like you did it right, so you'll be fine." said Revy as she gave Rocks tank a pat. Dutch came out of the cabin again, with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth.

"So you both remember the plan right?" said Dutch looking at both Rock and Revy.

"Yes Dutchie," said Revy checking over her rifle again. "Put explosives on the outside of the sub, punch a hole into one of the sealed chambers if necessary. Then seal it behind us, find the painting, put it into an airtight and pressure resistant bag. Then finally punch a hole out and go. That about sum it up?" asked Revy rhetorically.

"Yes," said Dutch patiently. "But this is in international waters so if someone else shows up, we might not be right here when you come back up. We do have a tracker on your suits, so we'll know where you are, and we will come back for you."

"Got it Dutch," said Rock putting on his goggles and breathing apparatus.

"Just don't forget about us," said Revy as she also put on the last of her suit. Rock and Revy sat on the edge of the ship and prepared to go in.

"Good luck," said Dutch. Revys response was muffled by her breathing apparatus, and then she and Rock leaned back and entered the water with a splash.

Rock felt the familiar feeling of being underwater, as the water closed back over top of him and he felt the pressure increase on his body.. He struggled with his breathing for a moment before he became accustomed to the mouthpiece. Revy was already far ahead of him, swimming down into the inky blackness. Rock began swimming swiftly, and soon caught back up with her. The water closer to the surface was clear and bright, but the farther down they went the darker it became. The light unable to travel farther down. It became a sort of twilight when they reached the sub. It was resting on the bottom of the ocean, like some leviathan out of legend. It was a broken ship of war, a relic, but more than that... it was a tomb. Some forty or so souls had claimed this as their final resting place. Rock wondered idly if they would mind the intrusion.

They reached the outside of a hatch, and Revy set about opening the hatch. She was almost sucked in, as it gave way, and water rushed in. If she hadn't managed to accomplish the herculaneum task of holding on, the water would have crushed her against the inside of the sub. When the inside was full of water, Revy swam inside followed by Rock. They shut the hatch behind them, and with a distorted sound of metal on metal it clacked close. They then braced themselves on the walls, and opened the hatch leading into the main sub. The water rushed past them into the sub, threatening to suck them in along with it. When the water had settled on the floor and wasn't a danger, they entered. Revy took off her rubber coif, and goggles.

"Goddamned was the annoying." declared Revy rotating her shoulders. "Hurt my fucking arm holding onto the outside like that. Should have just blown a hole in this bitch."

"Well I'm glad you didn't," said Rock. "Otherwise we would be swimming right now and the painting might get wrecked." Revy considered his words.

"Well there is that, but we're blowing a hole to get out of here, unless you want to get crushed by some water. The automatic filling system doesn't look like it's going to work, and if we open that hatch while we're in there, we'll be a wall decoration. But enough doom and gloom," said Revy smiling. "There's treasure to be had." They continued through the ship, and it smelled of mould, damp, decay, and death. They came across bodies in the hallway and more in beds. Most looked like they had gone as peacefully as they could, holding onto pictures of family, or appeared to have gone to sleep in their bunks. They had once been sailors of the German Navy. Now they were skeletons, empty and barren. Rock half expected one to reach out and grab him as he walked past. Yet as much as they searched, they just couldn't find the painting. The Twelve Knights led by Brunhilda, Then they came to the ones who hadn't gone so peacefully.

The first ones they came to, were collapsed in a hallway, weapons still clasped tightly even in death. Who or what they had been shooting at, Rock had no idea. The flashlights they had weren't providing a lot in the way of illumination, so Revy leaned in for a closer look.

"Well looks like someone turned this sub into the Okay Corral," said Revy as she showed Rock the bones cracked and broken from bullets.

"Could it have been desperation, because they knew they were going to die?" asked Rock.

"No way," said Revy shaking her head. "Sailors on a boat are like family to each other, and they would never turn on each other. This was probably an outsider who stirred shit up." Rock wondered if that was a shot at him. "I think that if we go into the next room, we're going to figure out who started this shoot out." Revy pointed her beam into the dark room and went in. Rock followed close behind.

They found the person responsible for the frantic shootout in the last hours of the crews life. It was a skeleton in an SS uniform. The double lightning bolt pins seeming to defy all attempts at decay, and still shone with a malevolent light when Revy swept the light over him. A Luger was clasped in his hand, and still held protectively to his chest was The Twelve Knights Led by Brunhilda. A smile of triumph split Revys face.

"Success," she cried happily. Revy pried the skeletal arms open with a groan of protest, almost as if it didn't want to give up the prize it had spent so long protecting. Revy took it anyways. "Looks like we were lucky," said Revy brushing dust off of the paintings glass cover. "The bullets that killed that Nazi fuck over there missed the painting." Rock looked at the corpse on the floor, which seemed defeated without its prize to protect and saw several holes through the front of its clothing. "And this must be the Captain," said Revy nudging another skeleton on the floor with her foot. It was wearing more casual clothing, and an officers cap with dried blood was on the floor beside it. The skeleton had a hole in its skull.

"Why do you think they killed each other?" asked Rock.

"Who knows," said Revy. "Could have been they had a grudge match going on and this SS fucker decided to end it. Looks like after he did that the crew came in here and avenged their captain." Revy looked back at the corpses in the hallway. "Looks like he took a few more of the crew with him though. Better than suffocating to death though, so in the end it looks like this gunfight was actually a bit of a blessing." Revy tossed the painting to Rock who caught it.

"What are you doing?" asked Rock curiously.

"Well if the picture we saw of the captain is anything to go by, hes got a Knights Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords. That kind of shit is worth a lot of money on the open market. So you just sit tight here with the good old captain, while I go make us a little extra money." Revy disappeared out the open doorway and Rock listened to her footsteps until they faded away into the gloom. He sat down on a bunk and noticed a picture. It had some dried blood on it, so he wiped it off. It crumbled off and turned to dust. Rock gazed at the picture.

It was of a man in a navy uniform with a woman and two small children. It was the very same captain who was now crumpled on the floor with a bullet hole in his skull. This wasn't just some treasure trove to loot, this was a graveyard. It was where people, real people had died. Fathers, brothers, sons, friends, and loved ones had died.

Rock suddenly felt unclean. They shouldn't be here, this wasn't their place. This was a place of the dead that was supposed to remain undisturbed. They should just take the painting and go, leave the relics and trophies to the dead.

"Hey Dutch, we've got a boat on radar," said Benny from his electronics room.

"What kind of boat?" questioned Dutch into his headset.

"A big one, if you look off the starboard side you should be able to see it."

Dutch looked off the side of his boat, and saw the faint outline of a ship on the horizon. Just my luck, thought Dutch. He was hoping he would get a job that would go off without a hitch, but I guess that was too much to hope for. He would have to bullshit his way through this. Dutch entered the cabin, and sat down in his padded chair. Damn he liked this chair.

"So what's the plan Dutch?" asked Benny popping out of his little hatch in the floor.

"The plan is to get them to leave so we can get our painting and get out of here," said Dutch.

"Kay, I'll hail them. So who are we this time?" asked Benny smiling with his words. "Coast guard? Mercs? Millionaire playboys?" prodded Benny joking.

"Hmmm," said Dutch as if in deep thought. "As much as I would like to be a millionaire playboy, I think that I'll have to settle for Thai Navy."

"Well if you want to take the fun out of it," fake pouted Benny as he went back down his hatch. Dutch waited a few moments, while Benny hailed the approaching ship which was now getting quite close. Dutch quickly went outside the cabin and changed the flag to a Thai flag. He looked at the deck. Benny had left his umbrella and lawn chair on deck. Well no time to clean it up now. He hurried back into the cabin and operated the radio.

"Attention approaching ship," said Dutch using his most authoritative voice. "You are approaching a Thai military operation. You are to alter course immediately and leave this area until otherwise notified. Do you copy?" Dutch set down the radio, and waited for Benny to give their response.

"Hey Dutch," called out Benny. "They're asking for our identification number and where our mother ship is." This took Dutch by surprise, and he growled a response back to the ship.

"That's classified military information, and if you do not leave this area immediately we will have no choice but to board and detain you." Dutch waited for a response, but he didn't receive any.

"What are they doing Benny?" asked Dutch.

"They're slowing down," said Benny. "And they won't respond to any of my hails anymore."

Dutch like this, they were being too pushy and they weren't answering. Something was up and he had a feeling that it was going to turn into a fight again.

In an opulent office, a blonde haired man in a reminiscent brownshirts uniform stood in front of a large desk. He had a swastika armband worn proudly of red, white, and black on his bicep. A balding rounding man sat behind the desk, listening to the report. The song, Flight of the Valkyries was playing off of an old record player.

"And so mein commandant, we broke communications with the vessel. It is in my opinion an imposter ship that is here to raid the U-boat and take the painting The Twelve Knights led by Brunhilda." The man behind the desk seemed to consider the words, leaning forwards on his desk fingers interlocked.

"Very well Hauptman, you may destroy this ship at your leisure. Nothing must stand in our way of retrieving our prize. It is destiny that we are here today, this ship is merely another obstacle in our path to glory. Destroy in, and wipe it from existence for daring to impede our progress in our holy mission."

The Hauptman raised his arm in the iconic Nazi salute. "Yes commandant, they will feel the strength of the mighty Aryan Nation."

"Hey Dutch, what are they doing?"

"I don't know Benny, it looks like they're unloading some crates on the deck."

"What's in the crates, can you see it?"

"No, it seems like they're blocking it with screens." said Dutch with growing frustration. He was getting his familiar bad shit is going to happen feeling. He listened to it this time. "Benny, get back in the radar room, I want to be able to run if this goes bad."

"You see something?" asked Benny.

"No," replied Dutch. "Just a feeling I'm getting." Dutch took the binoculars away from his eyes and started the boat. He still had his iconic sunglasses on. Dutch wasn't about to admit it to anyone, but he was still furious about the last couple of jobs. There was no way ANYONE was pushing him out of this one. Dutch kept watching the ship. He couldn't get a hold of Rock or Revy, but he could still track them. He hoped that this feeling turned out to be wrong, but he knew it wasn't. Dutch put the binoculars back to his face and continued watching the ship. He kept watching the screens, then they dropped. In their place was a trio of wire guided anti tank missiles. Dutch felt his heart rate increase. "Hang on Benny!" shouted Dutch as he put the boat to full power, and swung the boat around. With a puff of smoke and flame, several missiles followed him.

Dutch began weaving from side to side violently and the missiles closed in rapidly. Dutch saw one come in from the port side, and veered hard to starboard. The missile struck the water with a pillar of water rising out in anger of its miss. The Lagoon was going as fast as its engines good push it, but it just wasn't fast enough to out run the missiles. The second missile tried to dive bomb the torpedo boat, but it struck the water too when Dutch veered hard port. The last missile was coming in low over the water, and it followed Dutch wherever he went. Just before it struck, it exploded. Dutch had made it out of their range. He proceeded another kilometre before he slowed and stopped. The Other ship was moving into position, and preparing what looked like a diving bell. Dutch hoped that Rock and Revy would be alright.

Revy was in a foul mood. Rock had just given her another speech about morality and right and wrong. He was getting on her last fucking nerve. She felt the cold hate build in her. The kind of hate that wouldn't go away until she was drenched in blood. If this bastard didn't shut the fuck up she would kill him herself. To hell with Dutch, she would just tell him that Rock had drowned.

"I'm only going to say this once, and if you ever try to tell me what's right and wrong after this, I will put a bullet in between your eyes." Revy picked up a skull, and held up the captains medal. "You see these?" said Revy. These are just memories. You take away their meaning, their attachments and the only thing that they're worth is money. Once the people who had value in them are gone, that's the only thing that's left." Revys tone was low and dangerous. "I never want to have another conversation like this again, and if you pry or say I'm doing something wrong I will kill you. Do you understand?"

"I understand," said Rock looking down. Fuck him, thought Revy. He's still looking down on me like he's fucking justice incarnate. Revy was spared from unleashing her anger on Rock by the sound of something heavy connecting to the outside of the sub.

"Light off," hissed Revy turning off her own flashlight. Rock followed suit. Revy gave Rock the bag of swag, as well as the painting. She brought the rifle up, and went through the open hatch, heading towards the conning tower area of the sub. She hid behind a bulkhead. With a creaking of a turning hatch, and a protest of metal, water rushed in and swirled around her feet. It bubbled and gurgled, but there wasn't that much of it. That meant that whoever it was probably had a diving bell. Rock was beside her, and began counting off the number of people coming down the ladder.

"One...two...three...four," said Rock. His voice falling with every new member he counted. Goddamned rookie.

"What you should be counting are the guns," said Revy. Rock looked at her confused. "Listen for the rattle in the holsters," said Revy. Rock listened and he heard the rattle of several guns as the men moved around. "Well I guess that eliminates the possibility, of them being an antique recovery firm." said Revy grinning hungrily. "Let's do this!" cried Revy as she swung around the corner of the doorway, and fired a burst catching one of the men on the ladder in the chest. He died as the rounds shredded his chest. He fell back with a splash, and stained the water red. Their reaction to his death was slow. These men were amateurs playing with guns. Revy almost had enough time to get another before they reacted, almost.

"Pirates," cried one of the other crew. "Do not let them get Brunhilda! Our glorious mission cannot fail!" A flurry of shots answered Revy, and she answered right back. Rounds streaking back and forth. Rock tried to get to their exit point, but he tripped and dropped the painting. It slid across the couple of inches of water on the floor, straight towards the other group. The bald man picked it up as another one of their group took a round to the head courtesy of Revys assault rifle. A man with an SMG returned a burst of fire, putting Revy into cover. "Cover my retreat!" shouted the bald man. Despite the losses, he seemed overjoyed. "I must get the Brunhilda back. It is the only thing that matters! Cover me while I get it to safety!" The man with the SMG renewed his attack, sending bullets ricocheting and bouncing around in the cramped confines. The gunfire was deafening in the tight confines. Revy fired right back, their rounds passing each other in the air. The bald headed man hurried up the ladder, and back into the diving bell.

"Rock, where's the painting?" asked Revy over the gunfire.

"I dropped it," said Rock trying to shield himself behind the bulkhaed.

"YOU FUCKING DID WHAT!" screamed Revy. She was cut off from any other outbursts, by a gush of water as the diving bell detatched from the sub. A torrent of water began filling the old sub. It crushed the man with the SMG who had been by the conning tower with a the force only nature can provide.

"Fuck it," said Revy as she primed the magnetic breaching charges. Her anger was boiling over, and she was going to unleash it on these Nazi fucks. She had seen the armbands. The water was already rushing in, and she put on her breathing apparatus and goggles. The water was threatening to sweep her off her feet, as it rushed by pushing at her. Revy set the charge for minimal time, and threw it at the wall. She began running back, and Rock followed. It blew, and more water began rushing in.

Dutch was watching the recovery ship which had missiles, and saw them pulling up the diving bell they had sent down. The transmitters attached to Rock and Revy's suits said that they were still moving, and in fact heading to the surface. Dutch was in one of few points in his life where he didn't know what to do. He couldn't raise them on the radio, because they were still too far underwater and he couldn't rush to their aid, otherwise him and Benny would both be taking a one way trip to the bottom of the ocean. Dutch slammed his fist down on the railing in frustration. Benny looked over at him.

"You okay Dutch?" Asked Benny concerned. Dutch sighed forcefully.

"I just feel so useless right now, I feel like I'm powerless to help them."

"Don't worry about Revy Dutch, you and I both know that she's impossible to kill. Hell I bet death is afraid to go anywhere near her." said Benny trying to cheer Dutch up, but he was wrong. It was possible to kill Revy, she just had the right combination of skill and luck necessary to stay alive. And death, well why kill someone who gave you such good business? Dutch looked through the binoculars again at the ship. They were still sitting there, but then something changed. Dutch felt dread grow inside of him. They were setting up a machine gun on the deck, right where the diving bell had come up. It was aimed down into the water, and the crew waiting.

If Revy surfaces in that she'll get shot to pieces, thought Dutch with grim realization. He had to do something, anything. But there was nothing he could do. He felt his cool start to slip from him. It had been one fuck up after another this last month, and he was starting to lose reputation. It was either plain bad luck, or someone really had it in for him. Seeing his mood, Benny asked him what was wrong.

"What's going on Dutch?"

"They're setting up a machine gun on the deck of that ship," said Dutch with a grim finality. A look of slight horror made its way onto Benny's face.

"If they surface there," trailed off Benny.

"They'll die," said Dutch as if sealing their fate. They listened to the light lap of waves on the hull of the boat, until a faint chatter of machine gun fire came across from the recovery ship. Dutch saw a dim sputter of muzzle flash, and watched the scene unfold. It didn't last long, only a few moments and then all was silent. "Benny," said Dutch breaking the silence.

"Yes Dutch," said Benny as if in a faraway place.

"Go check the tracker, I want to know if they're still okay." That seemed to snap Benny out of his Reverie.

"You got it Dutch," said Benny hurriedly. Dutch followed him into the cabin. Benny's eyes were glued to the screen, and Dutch lit two cigarettes. One he kept for himself and the other he gave to Benny. They both watched the screen. It seemed like an eternity, and Dutch got a sinking feeling in his stomach. Losing the new guy would be tough, but losing Revy would be crippling. He wished with all his might that the two little blips would appear on the screen, or at least Revy. Someone must have been listening, because they did appear, and not just as drifting corpses, but moving at what appeared to be a steady pace. Dutch let out a relieved chuckle as the nauseous feeling disappeared. He patted Benny on the back happily.

"I guess that's what I get for doubting you huh Benny-Boy?"

"Told you that no one can kill Revy," said Benny as if a great weight had been lifted from him. He smoked his cigarette more slowly now to enjoy it, instead of to calm his nerves. Benny might have not spoken so soon, if he would have known what was coming after Revy. It was a man once known as more a beast than human. Feared for his ferocity and sheer brutality in a fight, he had been used extensively to hunt down the elite of NATO and root out anti government supporters and guerrillas. Thought to be unstoppable and proven to be utterly ruthless in his missions, he was given a codename by his superiors. "Demon." For that was what he was once he was on your trail. An insatiable demon who would stop at nothing to find you, and destroy you. No matter the cost to himself or anyone else in his way. This beast was still a man though, and his name was Besnik. Former Starshina (Sergeant Major) Besnik Remzi of the Albanian Military paratroop forces. He would turn this night into one of terror, and his target was Revy. He had never failed, and he didn't intend to start now.

"So everyone ready for tonight's action?" asked Artyom to his assembled strike team. It consisted of himself, Besnik, Morrigan, and the new guy Geoffrey. It had come to light that everyone here, except for Artyom had military supplied training in ship boarding and naval assaults. Artyom had taken some courses from Besnik with a previous class of Sabres, so he was confident in his ability.

"Always ready for some action love," said Morrigan winking at him.

"I am equipped and prepared for a naval boarding sir," said Besnik in his deep baritone voice.

"Ready to rock n roll sir," said Geoffrey. He was holding a customized M4, with so many illegal attachments that it would make an ATF agent stroke out. Silencer, internal waterproofing, holographic night sight, breaching shotgun, tactical light, infra red laser dot sight, and everything else any spec ops operative could ever want. Yet despite that, he was still a little sullen. He had wanted to use his East German AKM, but he had proven to be less than proficient with that, so here he was armed with what he was familiar with, regardless of how he felt about it.

They were all wearing a Soviet Night Fatigues, with a tiger stripe pattern of various shades of blue, black, and grey. They were also armed with their own personal illegally modified weapons of their choice. Morrigan had chosen an MP5n for the boarding. Artyom had his trusty AK-74u, Besnik had chosen to take both his own AK-74u, and a Bison Sub machine gun. They all had their sidearms, grenades, knives, and all the other tools of war on them. As well as pitch black mouthless balaclavas to hide their identities. They had military grade body armour, helmets, night vision, thermal, and infra red gear. Their gear was buoyant, meaning they would float if they fell into the water. Black Lagoon would die tonight.

"Okay," said Artyom. "We're heading out to their location in the float plane. Our informant is following at a discrete distance, and he has assured us that they are well in range. Remember, our mission is the elimination of the Lagoon crew, if at all possible I want to avoid the other ship. We'll board the Lagoon Boat from our inflatable dinghy, and eliminate them. Any questions?" asked Artyom looking around.

"Revy is to be saved for me, correct sir?" asked Besnik respectfully.

"Yes Besnik, she's all yours when we get there," said Artyom for what felt like the thousandth time. Besnik nodded satisfied.

"Well then let's get going." said Morrigan cheerfully, weapon leaned against her shoulder. Artyom was sure she was spending too much time around Angelika. Speaking of which, she waved goodbye to Besnik enthusiastically as they walked down the dock to the float plane. Besnik returned it, which caused her face to light up. Artyom wondered if she didn't actually have a drug addiction to uppers that he didn't know about. No one he knew was that happy besides Angelika. They all piled into the plane, and Geoffrey took off his helmet, and replaced it with his Boonie hat. Artyom looked critically at him.

"You might want to keep that," said Artyom. Geoffrey shook his head.

"I hear better with this on, and it lets me move better in a fight without a weight on my head." Artyom shrugged.

"If it helps I guess," said Artyom. Morrigan however, got a look of indignation on her face.

"If he gets to wear his bloody stupid hat, why can't I wear my beret?" asked Morrigan clearly feeling she had been slighted.

"Because," deadpanned Artyom. "It's bright red."

"Yeah, bu-"

"Bright red," reiterated Artyom. Morrigan crossed her arms in a huff.

"Fine it's not like I wanted to wear the stupid thing anyways. You know you could give me a wee bit of leeway now and then." Geoffrey made the mistake of sniggering when Morrigan said wee. Morrigan looked at him confused.

"What's so funny?" asked Morrigan not understanding what was so funny. Artyom hunched over the control column thinking, oh shit Geoffrey, you know not what you are unleashing.

"Just say wee again," said Geoffrey still fighting not to smile. Besnik caught Artyoms eye, and a ghost of a smile creased his face.

"Wee," said Morrigan still not understanding what was so funny. Geoffrey sniggered again.

"Wee," said Morrigan Again now starting to get a little angry. Geoffrey burst out laughing.

"What the bloody hell is so funny, about me saying wee?" asked Morrigan, her patience running out. Geoffrey made a very big mistake then.

"Oh twiddly dee potatoes, my wee laddie." Geoffrey laughed harder at his own joke. An apocalyptic look of rage came over Morrigan's face as she realized that he was making fun of her accent. Then Geoffrey made another mistake. "It just sounds adorable." Oh fuck, thought Artyom. He closed his eyes and pretended he couldn't hear the beating taking place in the back of the plane. It shook side to side while Morrigan laid into Geoffrey. When it subsided, Artyom looked back and saw a pleased Morrigan twirling a Boonie hat around her finger. Geoffrey was holding his nose, and looked pretty rough.

"Funny NOW _wee_ little man," said Morrigan challenging Geoffrey.

"No," said Geoffrey not daring to incur her wrath again.

"Good," said Morrigan leaning back pleased.

"Can I have my hat back?" asked Geoffrey.

"It's my hat now," said Morrigan.

"Please." said Geoffrey nicely.

"In a bit," said Morrigan brushing off his question. Artyom just shook his head. Sometimes he felt like he was dealing with children. He checked the tape player in the plane. What the fuck? Where was his Metallica tape? Goddamn it, the one thing to pass the time and he didn't have it. Artyom started up the plane, and swung it around facing out to sea. This was going to be a long flight. The plane leapt into the air and banked out towards sea. Tonight they would end this, one way or another.

Dutch didn't know what to do. It was night now, and he didn't have Brunhilda. Revy was coming down with a case of Whitman Fever, and she would be completely unpredictable in a fight. Dutch sighed, he would have to go too, to make sure she didn't go too far. He would have had to have gone anyways, because with the amount of people on that boat, there was no way that Revy could take it on alone.

"You ready Revy?" asked Dutch. Revy practised quick drawing her Beretta's.

"I'm ready Dutch," said Revy in a deadly tone. Dutch hated taking her for jobs when she was like this.

"Okay then, let's get going." Revy fell into step behind Dutch as they headed for the deck. Dutch paused in the cabin. "Hey Benny boy."

"Yeah Dutch?" said Benny.

"Hold down the fort while I'm gone, okay?"

"You got it Dutch."

"Hey Dutch, can we get a fucking move on already?" asked Revy impatiently.

"Yeah we're going Revy don't worry." Revy grinned savagely.

"This is going to be too fucking easy, they're probably having a big piss up to celebrate getting their little fucking painting." Revy tapped her Beretta's under her arms. "I've got the last celebration they're ever going to have." Revy strode out of the cabin. Dutch was left in the cabin with a shotgun over his shoulder, and Benny.

"So Benny, what do you think of the Nazi's. You know being a white man and all?" probed Dutch.

"You forget Dutch, my families Jewish so fuck the Nazi's is like a family creed." Dutch nodded apologetically.

"Right, sorry I forgot."

"Don't worry about it," said Benny. "Just make sure you take out a few more of them for my grandparents huh?"

"Will do Benny-boy," said Dutch leaving the cabin and joining Revy on the deck. Dutch wasn't so much going to control her on this mission, as unleash her. "Let's go," said Dutch. Revy just nodded.

The raft crept through the water, and Artyom and his team were low as they paddled silently towards the Lagoon boat. They would have to pass off the starboard side of the recovery ship to get to it, and Artyom hoped they could sneak past. Morrigan had finally given Geoffrey back his hat, and he was happy about it. No one talked for fear that their voice would carry across the open water. The only sound was their steady breathing and the dip as the paddle entered the water and propelled them forward. Nothing on them gleamed, or shone. It had been dulled down, and all of their weapons were made of a dark matte black synthetic or metal. No wood, no shiny metal. They had their game faces on, so to speak. Besnik however, it was like he was an entirely different person. Like a coiled spring or a cocked gun he seemed ready, no eager for action. A gunshot split the air. A pistol.

"Where the fuck did that come from?" hissed Artyom.

"The recovery ship sir," said Besnik his voice deathly quiet.

"Goddamn it," cursed Geoffrey.

"Well ere we go," said Morrigan doing one final check over. More gunfire was heard from the boat, and Artyom saw a raft and grappling hook attached to it.

"Okay, new plan." said Artyom. "We're going onto the ship and killing anyone with a gun. Any questions?"

"Can we have a plan that doesn't suck love?" asked Morrigan.

"Shut up Morrigan," said Artyom.

"And what about their boat over there," continued Morrigan in a whisper. Artyom looked, and saw the distinctive torpedo boat in the water trailing behind the larger ship.

"Can you handle that yourself Morrigan?" asked Artyom. Morrigan chuckled softly.

"Who do you think you're talking to love? I'll blow that thing from here to Glasgow."

"With a car bomb?" interjected Geoffrey. Morrigan just raised her fist without looking at him. The threat was well know.

"Okay then Geoffrey me and Besnik will take the main boat." said Artyom.

"You're coming too?" asked Geoffrey sounding surprised.

"No of course not, I just wear this for comfort," said Artyom sarcastically. "You think that I was just going to sit in the raft.?"

"Well yeah kind of." said Geoffrey. Artyoms face fell. Why did everyone always assume he was lazy.

"You ready old man?" asked Artyom turning to Beznik only to find him missing. "Besnik?" said Artyom again looking around. A light splash made them look over to the recovery boat. The thing that made the splash was a body. It wore a Nazi armband. A red light signalled them from on the deck.

"How in gods name did he get up there so fast?" asked Geoffrey. No one had an answer.

"Impressive old bugger." said Morrigan. "Well wish me luck," she leaned over to Artyom. "A kiss for good luck?" She asked hoping she didn't sound eager. Artyom smiled and leaned in closer towards her. She felt her face heat up. Morrigan was glad that the dark and balaclava hid her blush. She pulled it down, and closed her eyes and leaned forward slowly, waiting. Only for her to feel hands push her shoulders back roughly and she fell backwards with a cry of surprise and a splash. Water rushed around her, and she came back up thoroughly soaked and gasped a breath of air in. She glared at Artyom who smiled back.

"Twat," said Morrigan sourly.

"Oh muffin," taunted Artyom. Morrigan just glared at him further.

"Tonight you," said Morrigan unexpectedly. Artyom furrowed his brow in puzzlement.

"What?" he asked. He never got an answer, because Morrigan began swimming gracefully and quickly away from the raft towards the torpedo boat.

"She's gonna get you for that, you know that." said Geoffrey. Artyom shrugged.

"What can she do, I'm her boss."

"You're funeral," said Geoffrey.

"Yeah, yeah," said Artyom dismissively. "Let's not be late, shall we?" said Artyom starting to paddle. Geoffrey followed suit. They soon reached the hull of the boat, and began climbing. It was hell for Artyom. He was doing it, but his leg was giving him grief to no end. It was a little shaky by the time he reached the top and he had to lean against the railing for a moment.

"You okay?" asked Geoffrey sweeping his rifle around. There were several bodies with slashed throats or stab wounds littered around. How had Beznik done it?

"Yeah, just and old injury," said Artyom pulling down his balaclava and unlimbering his rifle. He hoped Geoffrey didn't notice his leg was twitching slightly.

"You good to go?" asked Geoffrey. Artyom nodded.

"Yeah, we've wasted enough time." He pushed himself off the railing and led the way rifle up and searching. He wasn't weak, his leg would not stop him.

Rock was watching the larger boat, and would occasionally hear a couple of shots only for it to fade away. Then a few new ones would pierce the silent night air. He and Benny were standing on top of the cabin watching it all go down.

"It's always hard to watch it like this," said Benny. "You and me are useless in a situation like this."

"I know what you mean," said Rock. "I want to help, but as soon as the shooting starts I'm just useless, and I have to rely on Revy to protect me." Rock sighed heavily and looked heavenward. "Sometimes I wish I could do more."

"Don't worry about it Rock. People like you and me just aren't the kind who can pick up a gun and shoot another human being." He gave Rock a little shove. "So in times like this, me and you just have to sit back and watch and hope for the best."

"I guess your right," said Rock. "We're just not able to do something like that." Both Rock and Benny turned back towards the boat as another faint gunshot split the air. An unnaturally loud click behind them made them freeze.

"Well lads unfortunately for you, I _am _the kind of person who can pick up a gun and shoot another human being." Rock and Benny turned around slowly hands raised. "So," continued Morrigan. "Any last wishes gents before I repaint the boat, with you?" Morrigan had a raised MP5 in her hands.

Besnik moved like a ghost through the ship, and he was only searching for one target. When someone got in his way he killed them with his knife. Quick, clean, and no noise. He pulled his blade from a twitching young man with blonde hair and laid him inside a room. A red pool spread from him. His friend was on the bed, his throat slit. All of these men had blonde hair and blue eyes. The so called image of Aryan perfection. Nazi bastards. Beznik kept hearing gunfire, and it drew him like a moth to a flame. But first he had to cut the power in the ship. Darkness was a primordial fear inducer, no matter what anyone said. A breaker box would do, the engine room would be best, but he simply didn't have the time.

Beznik moved down the hallway, towards a breaker box, quickly quietly and checking every corner. His footsteps made no sound at all. It was like a ghost had followed his past and killed all these men, and he had never been here. Beznik reached the breaker box and opened it. Whether through fate or design, another dress up Nazi came around the corner. His eyes widened as he tried to draw his pistol.

"Intru-," he was cut off in a gurgle. A very sharp piece of steel imbedded in his throat. He fell down clawing at his throat. Damnit, thought Beznik. There was a time when he would have heard him coming. Killed him without him ever seeing him coming. Although he fought it with every fibre of his being, he was getting old. He was getting slower, duller. But until that time, he was a keen edged blade that would smite all those before them. He was a demon in the flesh to his enemies.

"Over here!" cried an unseen Nazi. Beznik inwardly cursed. He was getting old, but he would show them fear. He would show them terror. He flipped the breaker master control, and the ship was plunged into darkness, with red emergency lights activating putting everything in a malevolent red light. A group of four Nazi's rounded the corner, pistols in hand they stared around in the low light unseeing. Beznik saw them in an inky green. They didn't see the beam of infrared light that marked them.

"What the hell is that?" asked one pointing towards the dark shape that was Beznik. He never got an answer. With a few quick nearly silent stutters they all fell, new orifices in their bodies. Beznik was old yes, but he was still razor sharp. He cut like one too. He retrieved the knife from the young mans throat, and then crushed it with his boot. He just hoped Angelika never saw him like this. It would break her heart.

Beads of sweat were lining Rocks forehead, as he stared down the barrel of Morrigan's gun. How was he going to get out of this?

What the hell? Thought Morrigan. Why weren't they going for their guns? Why didn't they have guns? These guys were pirates, weren't they? "Over there," said Morrigan gesturing. The blonde haired man moved immediately, but the Asian was a little slower so Morrigan hit him with the butt of her gun. He fell with a groan. "When I say move, you bloody fucking well move now!" growled Morrigan. The man had a small gash in his head and blood flowed down his head from where the sights cut him. Benny tried to move forwards to Rock, but Morrigan brought the SMG to bear on him. "You want to die, wanker?" said Morrigan menacingly. Benny backed up.

Why don't they pull a gun? If they would just do that, I would have a reason to shoot, I would have a good reason to shoot. The Asian man rose shakily to his feet, and was absolutely livid. Good, thought Morrigan. He'll go for a gun, and I can shoot him. Instead he started yelling, at her.

"I am sick of people with guns thinking that they can do what ever they want! I was pushed around in my old life, and I've been pushed around here and I'm sick of it!"

"You want to bloody die, then go for it."said Morrigan bringing up her MP5. He grabbed her barrel and she almost pulled the trigger, but what he did next shocked her. He put the barrel to his forehead. "What the hell," began Morrigan.

"You want to shoot? You want to kill? You want to just go around murdering whoever the fuck you want, then go ahead. I've never even shot a gun before, but you people seem to think that it's the one thing that solves everything, so just do it, pull the fucking trigger. I dare you." Morrigan was shocked, and the part about murder shook her to her core, and made her insides swim. She was a soldier, not a murderer. A soldier. Her hands quivered slightly, but she stilled them before he noticed. Something must have shown in her eyes though, because of what he said next.

"Can't do it can you?" said Rock like he was discussing where to park and not talking to someone with a gun to his head. "You're not a cold blooded killer without a conscience."

"No," said Morrigan unable to meet his intense gaze any longer. Rock let go of her barrel and she lowered it.

"My names Rock," he said extending his hand. Morrigan hesitated for a second before extending her own.

"Morrigan."

"Didn't I see you the other day at the Yellow Flag," asked Rock in a friendly tone.

"Yeah," said Morrigan. "You guys tried to shoot me." Rock actually looked embarrassed for a moment.

"Yeah sorry about that."

"No problem," said Morrigan. She rubbed the back of her neck. This was getting way to goddamned awkward for her. "Well I should probably go," said Morrigan.

"See you around," said Rock.

"Yeah, um bye," said Morrigan climbing back down the ladder to the main deck. The engine of a smaller raft started, and Rock watched it shoot away from the Lagoon towards the other boat. Benny looked dumbstruck.

"How did you manage to do that?" he asked in wonder. Rock fell down heavily into a chair and loosened his tie.

"I honestly have no idea, he replied.

Geoffrey had taken point after Artyom's leg had slowed him down. The lights were a pale white, and as they walked past an open doorway, a Nazi ran out of the room, and rushed into Geoffrey. Artyom couldn't get a clear shot, so it was up to him. The Nazi's breath smelled of booze, and it made him feel slightly nauseous. He headbutted the Nazi and he staggered back a couple of steps. It was enough. The M4 stuttered, and he fell dead before he hit the floor. Then the lights went out.

"Shit," cursed Artyom as he activated his night vision. Geoffrey did the same. The infrared beams swept the hallway, and they didn't have long to wait. Nazi's staggered into their line of sight and quickly fell to the combined 5.54 and 5.56 calibre rounds. It was too fucking easy. It would have been better it Artyoms leg hadn't been aching so bad. He was limping pretty bad by now. Going up and down those decks and the prolonged activity was taking its tole. Then they came to an area that was full of dead Nazi's and 9mm casings.

"What happened here?" asked Geoffrey. "Was it Beznik?"

"No," said Artyom looking down. "This isn't his style."

"Well, well, more piggies come to play?" said a almost sing song voice. Artyom and Geoffrey brought their rifles around to the source. It was that bitch Revy, and her shining guns were held to the side. She practically reeked of blood. "We've already got the painting and the commanders dead, so now it's just you left. Are you ready?" she asked readying her guns. Geoffrey had his gun up, but Artyom laughed in her face. A look of surprise came across her.

"Sorry dear," began Artyom. "But Besnik said he wanted you all to himself, and I promised that we'd let him.

"Who the fuck is Beznik?" said Revy pistols facing them.

"Me," said a quiet deep voice behind Revy. A shadow detached itself from the wall, and a flash of silver fell so fast it was a blur. Even with the goggles, Artyom could barely see him. Revy barely got out of the way, but not before taking a slash and blood flew. She grunted in pain, and returned fire. The flashes lit her face in the dim light, and it painted a temporary picture of where Beznik was each time she fired. He was always moving. Like a shadow, a demon. Artyom and Geoffrey took cover.

"Come on you pussy, stand still and fight me!" shouted Revy. She quickly swapped a clip. She saw a dark fist come towards her face and ducked at the last second. It dented the metal frame above her head. She saw his eyes for the first time. They were brown, and filled with an insatiable hatred and blood lust. Yet he didn't scream or shout, or even talk. He fought silently. Then why had he given away his position? Revy understood immediately. He wanted to draw out the fight, make her suffer. She tried to bring her cutlasses to bear, but a hard knee caught her in the face causing her to fall back, and spit blood. She fired both guns laying down. The bullets tore down the hallway, and hit metal. He was gone. Revy got up. She was alone. She looked around, where was he? A dull metal rolling sound came into existence, and Revy felt something hit her foot. She looked down, a grenade. She dived into a room and the explosion was deafening. A few pieces of shrapnel hit her in the legs and it elicited a cry of pain and blood flowed from a half dozen cuts in her legs.

She got up heavily, and panting went into the hallway. It was empty once again. She proceeded slowly this time, boots clacking on the metal flooring. Revy knew this guy was dangerous, but couldn't help but feel some excitement. It wasn't often that she got to fight someone of his skill. She was approaching a doorway but was a good twenty feet away, when a Nazi came through. Before either could fire, he tripped a hidden wire, and the explosion tore him apart. The light illuminated Beznik, he was right beside Revy staring down at her. Only his eyes and some skin around his face was showing. His eyes were empty.

Revy tried to bring her guns around, but with inhuman quickness, he swung a knife around and pierced her hand pinning it to the wall. He drew a massive fist back and swung. It connected to Revy's skull, but she smiled. He was too close to evade now. She fired a half dozen quick shots even as blood flew from her face. When a bullet hits you in a bullet proof vest, it should have enough force to bruise and knock you down. It didn't even slow Beznik down. He ignored the pain, all that mattered now was vengeance. He drew his fist back again as Revy's gun clicked dry and prepared to beat the person to death who had dared to hurt his Angelika, the one who kept him from losing himself in darkness.

A great boom filled the hallway and Beznik was thrown back. Dutch was holding his shotgun and racked the slide then fired again. Beznik was already gone.

"You okay?" asked Dutch searching around the gloom. With a cry of pain Revy pulled her hand from the wall and the knife fell to the ground in a clatter.

"Be careful Dutch, this fuckers fast and quiet," said Revy as she picked up her cutlasses and rushed towards Dutch. A dark shape loomed behind her.

"DOWN NOW!" shouted Dutch. Revy hit the floor and shotgun boomed again. The demon had already moved out of the way. His prey would not escape him for long. Revy reached Dutch, and they ran back down the hallway, firing all the while. An invisible infrared beam found Revy's fore head. A Nazi took the bullet for her as a squad came into view, drawn by the fighting. Dutch and Revy turned and ran, leaving the Nazi's as a shield. They didn't last long. Besnik refused to let them escape. The demon inside of him refused to let them escape.

He thundered down the hallway, and was upon them. He shot, stabbed, and broke bones as if they were twigs. One drew a bead on him, but using the sling on his rifle, Beznik leveraged another to take the fire. He shuddered under the impacts, held fast by Beznik's near inhuman strength. The Nazi's terrified face illuminated the muzzle flash. With a click the clip ran dry. The shredded Nazi fell to the ground. Beznik stared at the remaining Nazi. Blood from his comrade stained Beznik's body and face. A few drops were running down by his eyes. The Nazi tried to scream, he never got the chance. His windpipe was crushed in Beznik's well trained hands. Despite the victory, Beznik felt great anger. He couldn't catch them now, he had been delayed and his vengeance forfeit. He still had a chance though. He pulled out a detonator, and flipped the switch. The ship rocked under the explosions, and fires burst forth. Alarms blared shrilly.

"Next time Revy," said Beznik as if reciting a prophesy of things to come. "I will kill you, and you will suffer." Flames obscured his vision of the path that they had retreated on. When they cleared, Beznik was gone.

The smoke caused Artyom to cough as he ran down the hallways. Who the hell put down explosives? He had gotten separated from Geoffrey in the fight, and was now running for his life. His leg was giving signs of giving out, but if it did he would die. With another explosion, Artyom was thrown from his feet. He fell heavily and hit his head against a wall. His helmet saved him from splitting his skull. Artyom tried to rise, but he couldn't. His leg wouldn't support the weight. He tried, and only managed to fall. He panted heavily. He wasn't quite ready to die, and if he did who would miss him? He hadn't seen or spoken to his parents since he left the Union, and most of his friends were dead. The permanent members of Cossack Support were people he considered friends, but were they actually? Another fit of coughing racked his body and he fell. What had he done that would last? He had no family, no son to carry on his name. The world started turning dark. Would the others be alright once he died? He hoped they would, Jacques would look after them, he was good like that. He would miss them. He hoped they wouldn't grieve long for him. He didn't like it when Angelika cried, it made him feel bad.

"* Looks like I'm coming after all Yurri.*" said Artyom smiling under his balaclava as his world faded. "* Even if I am a little late*" Just before his light was extinguished, he felt strong arms pull him up.

"I got ya love, just hang on a bit longer, okay? We're both going to make it out of here." Artyom stared dumbly as Morrigan half supported, half dragged him out of the ship. It was all a blur, and the last thing he remembered was being thrown into a lifeboat.

"Hey Dutch, how much do you want to bet that's their plane?" asked Revy priming a grenade for her launcher.

"A lot," said Dutch simple. Revy fired, and blew the plane to bits. The rest of the ride back to Roanupur was uneventful, except when they got back.

"Motherfucker!" shouted Dutch.

"What is it?' asked Benny.

"Our fucking dock is gone is what!" raged Dutch. He got quiet after that.

"I am tired of these fucking mercs fucking with my business. I am calling Balalaika tomorrow, and I'll have her deal with them."

AN: Holy hell guys this is like 32 pages. Sorry if it's rushed at the very end but I'm tired. On a side note I'm staffing at a cadet camp, and I have to be there on the second of next month. I might be able to get another chapter out, no promises though. Honestly though, review. I like the feedback. Also is it narcissistic to like seeing my story at the top of the page? Oh well, until next time.


	9. Cage Rules

**Chapter 9 Cage Rules**

AN: Well this might be the last time I update for a while, so I hope that you enjoy. I'm hoping to break the 100 000 word mark with this, before I head off.(Gonna be the longest story wooh!) No one responded to the beta reader application thingy so I guess I'll just keep doing what I'm doing. Hope your ready for some Balalaika. Also I've been playing hearts of Iron 2 and it makes the original suck

There was the smell of blood and antiseptic in the air, with a harsh white fluorescent light buzzing in the background. The only other sound was a sickly sucking sound as medical instruments were inserted into flesh. With a pop and a slight ping of metal, another piece of buckshot was extracted from Besnik's arm and inserted into a metal dish. Besnik didn't make a sound, not even a grimace of pain as he was treated. He just stared straight ahead as Brent went about his work quickly, cleanly, and professionally. Angelika was made to wait outside, because she had a problem with seeing blood like this, or injuries. That and she would be cooing over Besnik the entire time, and Brent needed his space to work.

Besnik was upset at the moment. He wasn't going to go cry in a corner until he felt better though, his pride had been stung. His prey had escaped, he had failed. It was a difficult feeling to comprehend for him. He had been evaded before of course, leading to long manhunts that ended with him tracking his target through forests, mountains, or even deserts. He had been unstoppable, relentless, and always successful. If he ever needed a sign that he was getting older, this was it. He had taken hits, been wounded tonight. When was the last time he was wounded? Besnik dug deep into his memories, there were a lot of them, most often bloody and violent from a lifetime of killing. He grasped it, like a man finding the light in a dark room. It had been in Tehran 1972 hunting down a Delta force A team leader and his contact. He had eliminated both with maximum efficiency. He had taken a round in the foot, and a blade through the hand in that fight. The look on the Delta's face had been priceless when his knife was taken away from him still imbedded in Besnik's hand, which he had then used to slash his throat. All the while the knife was still imbedded in his hand. Besnik had kept that knife as a souvenir and used it to this day. that had been what, twenty years ago?

Besnik felt a slight feeling of nostalgia, but it passed quickly. He had been thirty four at the time, and in his prime. He became a secret legend, a boogeyman to spies and traitors. He wasn't dead yet though, and even as old as he was, he was still a terror to those who unlocked the rage within him. After he had nearly botched a mission and getting on in years, they had regulated him to training. It had hurt. He soon found joy in teaching the younger generations how to fight and be soldiers though, and they had looked up to him. The constant training and discipline of being in the military had kept the demon within him locked away, but when the Union fell he had been without purpose, without cause. Besnik clenched his fist, but unclenched it just as quickly. His knuckles were broken from his fight with Revy. There was a time when he wouldn't have missed, when he would have crushed her skull with a single hit. Besnik had trained most of his life to fight, and held at least a black belt in several disciplines. Even so, he was slowing. He trained harder than any of the Sabre's, yet now he had to push himself a little more every year to set the standard, and lead by example.

Time was the one enemy he couldn't fight, couldn't kill on a field of battle. It was slowly sapping the strength from his body as old age set in. Besnik didn't heal as quickly anymore, couldn't shake off a fight like he used to. He was 56 years old, and he could still outlast men half his age in physical training, but his time was coming. There was another ping as the last of the buckshot was removed.

"Hand," said Brent professionally. Besnik offered up his hand and Brent continued plying his skill.

Besnik had considered going out in a blaze of glory, but had chosen to fight until he no longer could as a merc before that. He had been so full of hate, of anger and it was still there just below the surface. He had known only death and savagery for so long it was more second nature to break a bone then to greet someone. He had no family to speak of, and he had no desire to start one of his own. He had siblings of course, but they cared nothing for him, and he them. He had been waiting for an end, a way out. Then he had met Angelika.

When he had first met her he had believed her to be mocking him with her constant smiles and cheer. He had ignored her, but she had persisted. The armour of hate and anger he shielded himself with had begun to crack and she had wormed her way in. She was his opposite in every way and she didn't even realize it. Where he saw a potential threat, she saw a new friend. Where he saw the evil in people, she always saw the good. Where he was always glum and isolated, she was overly happy and outgoing. She was already a young woman, and yet she held onto her child like naivete and innocence. To see something, someone so innocent and full of happiness, it gave him hope. It gave an old man a reason to live, to fight.

Besnik had never had a steady girlfriend beyond the need for release in a one night stand, never considered settling down, or starting a family. In a way Angelika had become his daughter. She was around the right age, and she had taken a real shining to him as Brent put it. He often wondered if he was treating her like she was too young, but if he didn't he was sure she would forget something. She had once worked all day without a break or meals, because she had been too consumed in her task. To see her smile put his soul at ease, to see her cry woke the demon in him. Besnik had always made sure to protect her from everything, but he tried to give her space to grow. When she got hurt, or someone scared her, Besnik made sure to repay it ten fold. He made it well known that if anyone hurt her there was no place on this earth that they could run where he wouldn't catch them. Hide, where he couldn't find them. Word quickly got around that she was off limits to pushers, gangsters, and any other scum who thought they could have a good time with her or make a quick buck.

To know that someone had scared her, frightened her so badly that she couldn't sleep unless he had been in the room with her so she felt safe enough to fall asleep. It filled him with a rage that no words on this earth can describe. To know that he'd failed to avenge her, made his rage intensify. He would not rest, could not, until this Revy had paid the price with her life. The demon within him demanded it, the father within him demanded it. Brent finished splinting his hand.

"Arms to the side," said Brent. Besnik complied. Brent took a pair of surgical scissors and cut away Besnik's shirt. His chest was a mottled collection of black and blue bruises. Brent probed his chest with gloved hands, and checked for any fractures or broken bones. "Well, it looks good," said Brent handing Beznik a spare shirt. "The tissue is badly bruised, so I would recommend avoiding physical activity for the next while." Brent knew it was a lost cause. Telling Beznik to avoid physical activities when he was training a group of new recruits was like telling the sun not to rise. It just wasn't going to happen.

"I'm fine," said Beznik gruffly getting off of the table. "I've had far worse, believe me."

"Oh I know," said Brent. "I recognize the scars a bullet or a blade leave behind, and to be honest with the amount of scarring and damage you've taken over the years, it's a wonder that you're still alive."

"I'm hard to kill." replied Besnik brusquely.

"That may be, but you're not a young man anymore, you've got to start slowing down." Besnik gave a derisive snort.

"The only time I'll ever slow down is when I'm dead." Brent gave a sigh of defeat.

"Well if I can't get you to slow down, I can at least get you to prepare yourself." Beznik's eyes were up in a flash, muscles tensed.

"For what?" he asked cautiously. Brent let out a small smile.

"For Angelika of course, I doubt that Morrigan can hold her back from you any longer." Brent opened the door, and revealed a straining Morrigan trying to keep a hold of Angelika who was trying to squirm out of her grip. "It's okay Morrigan," said Brent. "You can let her go now." With a gasp of relief, Morrigan let go of Angelika, who shot into the room like a grey streak, still in her work coveralls. She jumped into Beznik, and gave him a tight hug. It made him wince and his chest protested, but he didn't mind.

"I'm glad you're back. Are you okay? Is that blood? Are you going to die? Are you keeping something from me? It's bad to keep secrets you know." Angelika kept assaulting Beznik with a multitude of questions, and didn't even give him a chance to answer. She swooned over every scrape and cut, telling Beznik that he wasn't allowed out of bed tomorrow. Beznik thought she was going to faint when she saw his arm and hand, but he assured her that it wasn't serious. "Are you sure that you're fine and not just saying you are to make me feel better?" asked Angelika suspiciously. Besnik smiled to her.

"I'm as healthy as a horse." Angelika hugged him again.

"I'm just glad that you're safe," she said solemnly, her chin just able to rest on his broad shoulders. Beznik felt the anger within him dissipate, and the demon go back to sleep. These were the moments he continued living for. He gave her a hug back.

Artyom sat in his office, ice pack to his head and still in his combat fatigues. His head was killing him, he was tired, and his leg felt like there was a swarm of angry ants in it trying to eat its way out. He was also a little testy, because he had lost a brand new plane worth $275 000 dollars and the Lagoon company had completed their contract earning money while he lost it. He had to pay an extra grand to make the fisherman take them back to Roanupur, after their plane was destroyed, and it was about four thirty AM now. He was told that he had a mild concussion, and to take it easy for the next while. Fuck did this night suck. There was one consolation though, none of his people had died. All of his friends were still alive.

Artyom remembered how helpless he had been in the sinking Nazi ship. How close to death he had been. It was a sobering experience. He hadn't been that close to death in a long time, not since Afghanistan. Then his guardian angel named Morrigan had dragged his ass out of there, and saved his life. What was it that she said when she had pulled him up? Artyom reached back into his memory a few hours. It was fuzzy with the fatigue and concussion, but he eventually remembered. We're both going to make it out of here. Those very same words had been said by Yurri, before he was made a liar by a middle aged man with a gun. Ironic how the two people who had come back to save him had said something so similar. The only difference being one didn't die after they said it. Artyom dispelled the thought from his head with a mental shake. It was too fucking late, or early to be thinking about shit like that. He was just going to go to sleep, and forget about the whole thing. Then get in his gunship, load it up, and blow the fuck out of Lagoon regardless of the consequences. That was a satisfying thought. One thing did strike him as odd though. Why did they still have a ship? He had sent Morrigan to go wreck it and kill everyone of board. She wasn't dead, so what had happened? A light knock came from the door, and it opened. It was Morrigan.

"Hey love," said Morrigan sitting down wearily. Her eyes were droopy and half lidded only showing the barest trace of her sea coloured eyes. She was obviously exhausted, and in need of some sleep. All in all though, she was the best off out of the group. "How's the head?"

"Hurts like hell," said Artyom.

"Well that sucks," said Morrigan resting her head on her hand. Her voice sounded halfhearted like she was only half awake. She seemed to be getting very comfortable in her plush chair.

"Hey Morigan," said Artyom.

"Yeah love?" replied Morrigan eyes fluttering open, and threatening to close again.

"What happened with the torpedo boat? I thought I told you to go wreck it." Morrigan blinked a couple of times becoming more aware, and she seemed to get a little more apprehensive.

"Well I tried," began Morrigan speaking just a little too quickly, "but I just wasn't able to."

"Why?" pressed Artyom.

"Well," said Morrigan pausing. "There was just too many." She was having trouble looking him in the eye. Artyom walked over so he was standing over her.

"There were two," said Artyom coldly. "And neither carries a gun. I had Jacques look it up, so quit fucking lying and tell me why you didn't do your fucking job." Morrigan got a little angry then.

"I did the best I bloody well could, and I still ended up saving your sorry arse, so lay off." She made to walk past Artyom and go for the door.

"Sit," said Artyom forcefully.

"No screw yo-."

"You want to get fired?" asked Artyom deathly quiet. Morrigan stopped mid step and turned to face him, a look of disbelief on her face and what was the other that was barely there? Fear?

"You wouldn't," said Morrigan.

"Wouldn't I?" said Artyom advancing on her. "I know for a fact that you can't go back to your shipping job, your old captain will see to that. I also know you can't go back to Ireland Miss Sergeant McCarthy as you deserted and are currently wanted for prosecution in the United Kingdom so you can't even go to most civilized countries without getting extradited and sent to prison. So unless you want to spend the rest of your days sucking a warlords dick in some shit hole of a village for the rest of your life I suggest you sit." Morrigan was practically quivering with rage.

"Fuck you," she hissed.

"Then leave," said Artyom gesturing to the door. "See how far you make it. Go on, leave." Morrigan sat glaring as if trying to burn a hole into Artyom. She crossed her arms defiantly.

Artyom loomed over her. "So how about we start at the beginning?"

"Go to hell," said Morrigan looking away. How could she have had a crush on this prick?

"Don't jerk me around Morrigan, If you can't tell me the truth, then I can't trust you. If I can't trust you then I boot your ass to the curb. So how about you start being a little nicer." Morrigan bit back a reply that would have gotten her fired. Her brother had gotten her that shipping job as a favour, and without this, she was done. She had been able to avoid most of the worst parts of being a merc by being a bodyguard. Is she was fired, she would need money. To get that money, she would need to do... things. The kind of things that made her stay up at night, the kind that made her desert. What did this fucker know about killing? He was a flyboy, a fucking pampered prick who thought he was tough and knew war because he killed in the safety of his armoured chopper.

"What the fuck do you know?" snapped Morrigan.

"Not much, that's why I'm asking so quit being such a bitch and tell me why the fuck you couldn't pull a trigger." said Artyom angrily.

"Like you actually fight close and dirty," said Morrigan standing and getting in his face, as she practically spat the words. "You wouldn't know the first thing about a real fight. About being a soldier. Have you ever had to share your foxhole with a dead friend for two hours, too scared to move in case the sniper who killed him thinks you're alive too? While your friend lays on top of you as you stare into his dead eyes? Have you ever had your friend bleeding so bad that it gushes past your hands as you try to hold his guts in while you tell him that he'll be fine when you know he's dying? Have you ever had to put fucking families against a wall, because some intelligence fucker says they're rebels and fucking shoot them all? Women, children, the fathers who try to be shields, do you have any fucking idea what that's like you heartless bastard!" Morrigan was breathless, her shoulders rising and falling hard, the look in her eyes spoke of an anger rooted in hurt. Artyom was stunned, and he felt his anger dissipate. He said something foolish then.

"You killed children?" Morrigans eyes widened as she realized her mistake and her eyes began watering.

"I quit, I don't care," said Morrigan trying to push past Artyom wiping roughly at her eyes with her combat gloves.

"Morrigan wait," said Artyom grabbing her wrist. She swung her other fist around and hit him in the gut. It hurt like hell. Artyom couldn't let her leave though, not like this, not when he had made a mistake. He pulled her into a tight hug, and he took another punch. It almost dropped him, but he wouldn't fail another comrade.

"Let go of me you fucker," said Morrigan trying to break free, readying another fist.

"I understand," said Artyom trying to hold her tightly. She was better at grappling though and it was only a matter of time before she broke free.

"You don't know shit," said Morrigan about to deliver a haymaker to Artyom who she had pushed against a wall, her eyes still tearing up.

"I've done it too," said Artyom keeping his voice level. Morrigan stopped her fist halfway, to his head, her eyes seeming to quiver.

"You what?" asked Morrigan her tone softer and seemingly wary for deception, but her voice shaky.

"When I was in Afghanistan," began Artyom. "Whenever a Soviet convoy got hit, or a bird was shot down, we would torch any village even close to it. We called them vengeance missions. We would roll out in our hind gunships, and gun them down in the streets. If they hid in the buildings, it was all the easier, because our rockets would demolish them and they would get crushed or suffocate. We would spread mines that looked like candy or toys, so that the children would get maimed and the parents would have to look after them, and not help with the war effort." Morrigan lowered her fist and was staring at Artyom. "They never stood a chance, never saw it coming. I've killed hundreds like that Morrigan, hundreds. Just counting lives of children. You think your hands are stained with blood, well they are." Morrigan looked like she was physically struck at those words. "But mine are drenched Morrigan, drenched. The refugee columns you read about? Those were easy targets. Whenever a Soviet life was taken, we would demand a tidal wave of blood to make up for it, those were simply the most convenient. I've killed so many people, I can't even count them, and the majority were civilians. That was my career, except I did it from a couple of thousand feet so I didn't have to see their faces as I pulled the trigger." said Artyom as his voice started to waver. "So no, I don't know what it's like to look them in the face while I do it, I don't know the full horror of killing an innocent. But don't you dare say I don't get my hands dirty, because they will never come clean." Artyoms breath became harder to draw as he finished. Morrigans breath was shaky and tears began spilling from her eyes. Her face contorted and she buried her head in Artyoms chest sobbing. Artyom held her tight.

"I'm a te-errible person." she sobbed. "I-I'm a m-monster." Morrigan gripped his fatigue shirt more tightly in bunched fists. "I should just die," she hiccoughed as her voice broke and went through a fresh wave of crying.

"Shhhh shhhh," comforted Artyom. "You're not a monster," he said patting her back. His cheeks felt wet, he was sure he was crying. He hadn't had that happen in a while. Hadn't felt this...human in a long time.

"Yes I am," sobbed Morrigan.

"No you're not," said Artyom. Morrigan continued to cry. "Morrigan look at me," said Artyom softly. Morrigan slowly looked up, tears still streaming down her face and hiccoughing air into her lungs. "You care Morrigan, you feel bad."

"That doesn't mean anything," said Morrigan struggling to form words.

"Yes it does," said Artyom. "It means that you have a soul, that you're a kind person. That you care. If you were a monster, you would keep doing it. Or worse you would enjoy it, not be grieving for those you killed."

"H-how do you know I'm not just feeling sorry for m-myself?" demanded Morrigan.

"Because people who feel sorry for themselves don't cry like that," said Artyom. Morrigan buried her face into his chest again and cried for a while though less forcefully. Artyom was sure that he did too. After a while, she stopped crying, but still held on tightly. Artyom held on to her too. With a light pull, Morrigan signalled that she was done. Artyom let her go. She sniffled and wiped at her eyes.

"Thanks," she said.

"Anytime princess," said Artyom. Morrigan smiled weakly.

"You know I hate it when you say that."

"I know," said Artyom. Morrigan walked to a couch against a side wall, and sat down in front of it. Artyom sat down beside her.

"Sorry I hit you," said Morrigan.

"I deserved it," said Artyom. Morrigan chuckled softly.

"Aye, you did." She pursed her lips. "Artyom."

"Yes?"

"Don't look into my past like that again okay? When I'm ready I'll tell you everything, but until then just leave it alone okay?"

"Consider it done," said Artyom. Morrigan punched him playfully in the arm.

"Thanks love."

"No problem," said Artyom. They sat in silence for a while. "Would you like to know something about me?" asked Artyom.

"Like what?" asked Morrigan.

"Anything," said Artyom.

"How about everything?"

"That's a lot," said Arytom.

"Aye it is."

"Where to begin," pondered Artyom out loud.

"How about at the beginning," said Morrigan.

"That would take to long," said Artyom.

"Well you've got to start somewhere," said Morrigan.

"Alright, how about with my name?"

"What about it?" asked Morrigan curiously.

"Artyom's not my real name."

"No kidding?"

"No it's true, my real name is Antanov Yeghevich." Morrian looked thoughtful for a moment.

"I think I like Artyom better," said Morrigan finally.

"Oh, why?"

"Because then I can call you Arty," said Morrigan laughing. They talked for a couple of hours, just the two of them. They talked about everything, where they grew up, funny experiences, embarrassing things, family, their likes and interests, talent, Yurri. They talked like they had known each other for years, and shared nearly everything. It was a moment of peace in a night of death. They fell asleep like that, still in combat fatigues, still in front of the couch.

Jacques came by a few hours later, and saw them, their heads together and sleeping peacefully in front of the couch. He stared at them for a few moments in the doorway as if considering this new development, then left. He came back a few minutes later, and put a blanket over them. He had a small knowing smile on his face while he tenderly put down the blanket, careful not to wake them. Then he left again without a sound, leaving them to sleep just a little longer.

"Goddamn it, that stings!" said Revy as her wounds were treated more properly by one of Balalaika's doctors. "Ahhh, ow, ow ,ow!" cried Revy.

"All finished," said the doctor with a slight Russian accent.

"Better be," said Revy sourly. "Where did you get your degree? A fucking back alley?"

"Revy, be nice to the doctor, after all he did just treat you free of charge." chastised Balalaika, smoking one of her iconic cigars behind her great mahogany desk. In Roanupur, if Chang was the king pin, then Balalaika was queen, but not his queen, oh no she was her own monarch. She was crime royalty, and people feared her wrath from Roanupur all the way to the icy steps of Moscow and beyond.

"I know big sis," said Revy leaning of her fist and lighting a cigarette.

"So Dutch, I can see you and your crew are worse for wear, so I assume that you need some help."

said Balalaika as she tapped some ash off of her cigar before returning it to her mouth. "Am I right to assume this, or am I wrong?" asked Balalaika clasping her hands and leaning forwards on her desk.

"No, you're right Balalaika," said Dutch. "I've been having problems with the new merc group that's set up shop here in town."

"The very same one that blew apart your dock office, and tried to kill you last night?" pressed Balalaika knowingly.

"Yes," said Dutch through clenched teeth. Balalaika seemed to think for a moment as she snubbed out the tip of her cigar in an ashtray. "I've tried to deal with them, but I don't have the manpower or the resources. I'm run a delivery company, not an army." said Dutch.

"So this is the part, where I get on my gallant white steed and come save the day, waving a banner of justice and charge in guns blazing?" Asked Balalaika as she toyed with another cigar considering lighting it.

"That's exactly what I'm asking," said Dutch his tone professional. Balalaika laughed.

"Well I was planning on getting around to visiting them, but I guess I must have forgotten them in the press of usual business. So I'll just use this as an excuse to visit them personally. Truth be told, it really has been too long since I was in the field. I must admit I was starting to feel cramped simply giving orders and looking over the books."

"Kapitan are you sure that's wise?" asked Boris concerned.

"But of course sergeant," said Balalaika, her scar tissue distorting her smile into something twisted on the right side of her face. "After all you'll be there to protect me too, correct?" asked Balalaika.

"Of course Kapitan, I will always protect you," responded Boris immediately.

"No need to get over dramatic," said Balalaika smiling with her words. "A simple yes would have sufficed." Boris actually looked embarrassed.

"Sorry Kapitan," said Boris.

"No need for an apology," said Balalaika.

"Wait you're going to this personally?" asked Revy almost giddy with excitement. "I can't wait to see the look on that fuckers face." She grinned wolfishly. "Wouldn't mind another crack at that big bastard either." If at all possible her grin got bigger. "Now that would be fun." Balalaika clicked her tongue.

"Now Revy, I can't have you interfering with this, you're emotions will get the best of you. It will be just me, Boris, and a few others. I know you would enjoy another fight, but the other rulers of this city are up in a fuss about just a little death and destruction." aid Balalaika in an incredulous tone as if it was ridiculous to be worried about death and destruction. She sighed and seemed wistful at the thought of a new fight. "They really do panic far too quickly. I mean it's only a couple dozen dead and a few buildings damaged or destroyed. In wartime we would just be getting started. But that's the mafia for you, too concerned with profit to actually get their hands dirty when the other side can actually strike back. They are far too soft." said Balalaika as if passing judgement on a sin.

"Ohhhh," groaned Revy in disappointment. "Come on sis let me come with you."

"Not this time I'm afraid," said Balalaika.

Revy pouted, and rested her head on her bandaged hand. "Ah shit," said Revy in pain.

"Oh Revy dear," said Balalaika laughing. "You are always good for a laugh."

"Ehh, whatever," said Revy. Balalaika seemed to notice Rock for the first time that day.

"Rock, I see that you met with some trouble of your own last night," said Balalaika referring to the bandage on Rock's head.

"Yeah Rock," cut in Revy. "How did you and Benny actually manage not to become Swiss cheese?"

"Well," said Rock. "I don't really know. She hit me which cut me, and after that I kind of just lost it." Revy grinned darkly.

"So you finally grew some balls huh? So how did you do it? Hit her with a wrench, push her into the propeller?" Revy's smile grew, "shoot her?"

"No, no, none of that." said Rock as if apalled. Revy seemed to lose interest after that. "I just talked to her, she was actually kind of nice. She didn't seem like a bad person, at all. Or even much of a criminal." Revy looked at him like he was the dumbest person she had ever seen.

"You're un-fucking believable." said Revy looking away.

"Ah well what's done is done," said Balalaika. Suddenly her posture changed to that of authority. "Sergeant." Said Balalaika in a tone that brokered no disrespect.

"Yes Kapitan?" answered Boris immediately.

"Get me a car, and two other soldiers of your choice. We leave at once."

"On your orders Kapitan," said Boris moving immediately to carry out her commands.

"Well Dutch, I'm going to see if I can't solve your little problem now." Said Balalaika. "I do hope that I solve this problem to your satisfaction." Balalaika smiled darkly. "I know I'm going to solve it to mine." Revy would have given anything to have gone along with them. It was going to be good.

Morrigan and Artyom woke up around the same time. Light streaming in from the large window, and the sounds of a living breathing city assaulted them as they stirred from pleasant sleep. They looked awkwardly at each other for a moment and wondered where the blanket had come from.

"We didn't, you know," began Morrigan sheepishly.

"I don't think so," said Artyom taking in the fact that their clothes were still on and there were no empty liquor bottles. Morrigan had an unreadable look on her face.

"About last night," continued Morrigan.

"Keep it to ourselves?" asked Artyom. Morrigan smiled.

"If you can love." She looked over at the clock. 12:07PM "Ahh!" cried out Morrigan.

"What?" asked Artyom.

"I'm late, Besniks going to kill me!" groaned Morrigan, quickly rising to her feet. "Oh, but he's already gone."

"What was going on?" asked Artyom.

"He's taking the Sabres out for survival training today and I was supposed to come help teach." Morrigan put her hand to her head. "Now he's going to make me play with those stupid dolls he collects, or play Monopoly with Angelika." Games with Angelika never seemed to end, and she never seemed to tire of them. God help you if you grabbed the car before she did. Morrigan shuddered involuntarily.

"Well I guess that you'll just have to spend the day with me," said Artyom grinning slyly. Morrigan groaned.

"As if my day wasn't already bad enough," said Morrigan.

"Hey," said Artyom indignantly. Morrigan giggled.

"Just teasing love, buuut," said Morrigan leaning down. "You need a shower, because frankly love you stink."

"I don't stink," said Artyom with a cross look. Morrigan looked at him with half lidded eyes in annoyance and straightened up.

"Of course not," said Morrigan sarcastically. "Because saltwater, oil, smoke, gunpowder, and sweat make you smell like roses. I can't believe I made that mistake, I must be off my rocker on this one."

"Then why don't you shower first?" demanded Artyom.

"Because," said Morrigan crouching down. "Then you would smell worse to me than you already do." Artyom furrowed his eyebrows in Irritation. Morrigan sighed. "Quit acting like a four year old and get your smelly arse up."

She pulled Artyom to his feet, and practically threw him into the shower room on the main hangar floor. "And don't come out until your arse sparkles!" called in Morrigan after him.

"I'll show you something that sparkles," grumbled Artyom lathering himself with soap.

"What was that?" asked Morrigan, a twinge of playful malice in her voice from outside the shower room. The entrance was just a turn around another wall for privacy, so if she decided to take vengeance, he wouldn't have any warning.

"Nothing princess," called out Artyom.

"Better be nothing," said Morrigan. "And don't call me princess!" Artyom quickly showered and changed into some dry clothes. He exited into the main hangar to a patiently waiting Morrigan who was sitting on a table swinging her legs back and forth. Artyom didn't know why she did that when there was a perfectly good chair to sit on.

"Bout time," said Morrigan throwing a towel over her shoulder and going into the showers. Artyom resisted the urge to look at her swaying hips. After all he was seeing Eda, and he had, had a very nice couple of evenings with her. Nothing serious, just a dinner and a movie. She was crass, fun to be around, deceptively smart, shared his hot temper, and knew how to have fun. He wondered when they were going to get physical. Artyom enjoyed the romance and at heart he was a hopeless romantic, but a man had his needs.

Artyom saw a note taped the little bulletin board they kept usually for flight schedules. It was lunch so all the other pilots were gone, and the note said that Jacques was in town with Brent picking out cars to use for transports for the Sabres. Figures he'd take Brent, that man knew everything there was to know about cars. Artyom went and put on a drab green flight suit. He had a transport job tomorrow, and he had to make sure there were no problems with the MI-8 before he took it out. Artyom wondered how Geoffrey was doing with the Sabres. Artyom guessed that himself and Morrigan were the only two people at Cossack Support right now. A very naked Morrigan, Artyom reminded himself looking to the shower room where he could hear running water. Artyom imagined her, water running down her body, glistening in the light, hair soft and damp, curvy, pert-, no bad Artyom he chastised himself. You're in a relationship now, don't fuck it up.

Artyom zipped up his flight suit and put on his flight helmet flipping down the sun shade visor. He began walking outside to the parked MI-8. He stopped mid stride by the hind. Something felt wrong. Artyom looked around, but he didn't see anything. Everything looked as it should be, the doors were open to help with the heat, the tools were put away or hanging up, and the warning markers were still on all the pointy or sharp surfaces of the aircraft. However his instincts had never let him down before, and he wasn't going to start doubting them now. He opened the door to the hind, and pulled out the AK-74u from its rack. He racked the bolt and began walking around, rifle sweeping the area. He should have grabbed his pistol, but it was still upstairs with Morrigans hanging from a coat rack in his office.

He walked with slow sure steps that Besnik had taught him to use when clearing a building. He kept the rifle level and began sweeping it around. He started walking towards the shower room to get Morrigan, turning slowly, checking every angle and corner. He must have missed one, because he never saw the person who grabbed the barrel of his rifle.

Artyom fired instinctively trying to force the gun towards the person holding the barrel. Besnik had told him that if he ever had to pull watch, and someone snuck up on him to pull the trigger. It could startle the person enough to let go of you and for you to gun them down, and if not then at least you warned the rest of the camp. The sound of the firing AK rebounded around the hangar along with a few ricochets flying madly around. The person wasn't startled, and didn't seem to be bothered by the hot casings pelting off of him. With a leg sweep, and a push Artyom was on the ground. The AK wrenched from his grip. He tried to pull out his assailants legs from under him, but he was quickly pushed down by a foot stomping down on his chest. The sharp point of the heel hurt pretty good. Artyom felt a wave of fear course through him. Wait, heel? Artyom saw a feminine high heel on his chest, followed by a stockinged leg, and a long skirt followed by a business looking top and Soviet greatcoat over her shoulders. At the head, was a face that would have been beautiful had half of it not been scar tissue. Two piercing sapphire eyes stared down at him, and long blonde hair streamed down her back. Artyom felt his past jump out at him as he remembered the VDV Kapitan who had played chess with him all those times, who had saved his life. Not once, but twice. Once from the Mujaheddin, the other from himself. Balalaika.

"Well, well what do we have here?" said Balalaika smiling cruelly. "A lost soldier playing with guns? You really should be more careful mercenary, you could hurt yourself if you play with dangerous things." She doesn't recognize me, realized Artyom. His visor was down, and he had gotten more mass since the last time he had seen her. Add to that the fact they hadn't seen each other for eight years, and now she thought that he was an anonymous merc. The dark barrel of the AK loomed ominously over his face. "Now you've been hindering some friends of mine, and I simply cannot allow that," said Balalaika with a fake pout. "So I guess you came to the wrong city. Sorry for the inconvenience, but I guess that you're going to have to check out early." Balalaika pulled the trigger.

Morrigan heard an AK fire, and on instinct hit the floor. She had been enjoying the hot water spraying down, and had been relaxing in the soothing feeling. On a ship or in the army, she wouldn't have had the luxury of a long hot shower, but here she could have as long a shower as she wanted. She had lingered enjoying the warmth.

Morrigan hurriedly got up, and threw on some of her clean clothes. She jumped into a pair of cargo pants, and pulled on a black tank top. She quickly tightened her boots, and peered out the open doorway. It had only taken a few seconds, but Artyom was already on the ground with some scar faced broad holding Artyom's AK to his face. Artyom wasn't great at fighting, but he was competent so this woman must have some skills. Morrigan was waiting for someone to come out with a gun, like Brent or even Jacques, but no one came out. Morrigan gritted her teeth, where the fuck was everyone?

Morrigan could hear talking, but the running water drowned out exactly what was being said. She listened more carefully.

..."but I guess that you're going to have to check out early." Morrigan saw the woman bring the AK so it was directly in front of Artyom's face. Fuck it, thought Morrigan as she ran as fast and quietly as she could from the little shower room. She hit the woman in a running rugby tackle just as she pulled the trigger. The rounds missed Artyom and scored the ground claiming chunks of concrete instead of flesh and blood.

Morrigan and the woman hit the ground and Balalaika hit the ground with a dull thud and a slight grunt. Morrigan was on top, and brought a fist down on the woman's face, causing a near instant bruise, then hit her again causing another. On the third strike, the woman pushed her fist off course so it missed, and pulled Morrigan forwards off balance. As Morrigan fell forwards, the woman brought her head forwards and headbutted Morrigan. Morrigan felt pain course through her face and her eyes water as her nose was struck, and blood began flowing out. Slightly disoriented, the scarred woman grabbed the front of her shirt, and kicking her hips up threw Morrigan off. Morrigan rolled forwards with the momentum of the throw, recovering in a crouch facing her, and wiped some blood off her face with the back of her hand. Morrigan realized that she was staring down the barrel of an AK.

The scarred woman pulled the trigger, but it only clicked in response. Morrigan smiled viciously and drew a narrow bladed fighting knife from her boot with a snick. The woman with the scars dropped the AK, and adopted a fighting stance.

Morrigan came in low and attacked with a reverse grip upwards slash. The scarred woman dodged away and kicked out, but Morrigan blocked it and let loose one of her own which was also blocked. They traded a few more unarmed blows, before the two women circled each other for a moment. Morrigan then followed up with a horizontal slash at stomach level. It cut the front of her dark red business top, barely reaching the flesh underneath. A tiny amount of blood came out and she grunted slightly in pain. It was more a heavy exhale though. The scarred woman was watching her coldly as they fought, greatcoat flaring as she moved. Morrigan brought the knife to her hip, and attacked with a forward lunge trying to end the fight immediately. The woman moved, greatcoat fluttering, and then it was in Morrigans face and covering her knife arm. The knife punctured the coat, but Morrigan was blind. She felt a blow to the back of the head, and suddenly she was off the ground in a headlock struggling to breathe. The blow to her head moved the coat so she could see, but it might have been better if she couldn't. Her arm holding the knife was being forced back so it was moving towards her throat in a hold that if Morrigan resisted would break her arm. She realized with mounting horror, that the woman was going to slit her throat using her own hand. Morrigan kicked futilely in the air trying to hit the woman behind her. She felt cold steel touch her throat, and Morrigan felt her heart stop, and she stopped kicking. She stared at the knife. The slightest of movements would spell her end, and she would choke on her own blood as it spilled over the floor.

"Wait, wait!" said Morrigan desperately still eyeing the knife whose tip was brushing against her throat.

"But whatever for?" asked Balalaika feigning surprise. "You cut me, so it only seems fair that I cut you back." The knife moved slightly and Morrigan took in a sharp breath, but it didn't cut. It was getting harder to breath, and her vision was starting to darken. "Turnabout is fair play, but I like to take a little more than is fair. I hope you understand." said Balalaika as if she was asking Morrigan to work late, and not going to slit her throat. The knife moved.

* "Balalaika wait," * said Artyom in Russian. Balalaika looked over in surprise at Artyom who had removed his helmet and had his hands up in a nonthreatening gesture.

* "Lieutenant Yeghevich?" * said Balalaika like this was the last thing she had expected. * "So you're the one causing all the trouble." * Balalaika smiled. * "I should of known, you were always up to something and causing trouble." *

* "No more than you," * said Artyom lowering his hands and letting out a small grin. This was definitely not how he had expected to meet Balalaika again. In truth he had never expected to meet her again.

* "You do realize that you've been overstepping your bounds, and infringing on my business?" * said Balalaika adopting a more serious tone.

* "I apologize for that, if I had known they belonged to you I never would have acted against them. But Kapitan could you let go of Morrigan, she doesn't look very good." * Morrigans face was turning a shade of purple, and she was only able to get tiny gasps of air in. Balalaika released her.

Morrigan hit the ground and dropped the knife, supporting herself on hands and knees. She gasped, and gulped in large lungfuls of air greedily. Her entire frame seemed to shudder with the effort of drawing in air.

* "May I ask who she is?" * asked Balalaika gesturing towards Morrigan.

* "She's my bodyguard, and she's already saved my life twice." * said Artyom as Morrigan regained control of her breathing.

* "Well she certainly is loyal." * said Balalaika eyeing Morrigan. * "She attacked me with only a small blade while I had a gun. Foolish or brave depending on how you look at it." * she said approvingly. * "But she could stand to learn some better fighting techniques." * said Balalaika as Morrigan grabbed the knife stood back up a look of grim determination on her face. Balalaika took out a Makarov and aimed it square at Morrigans head. "I really wouldn't try that, I won't be so kind this time." Morrigan glared at her, then dropped the knife. It hit the ground with a sharp clatter.

"So what are you going to do Kapitan?" asked Artyom.

"Well I don't really know anymore," said Balalaika putting her hand under her chin as if in deep thought. "I had planned on killing you and burning down your hangar, but seeing as we're old friends I could see past your transgressions, and deal with a simple monetary sum." Morrigan got a look of rage on her face.

"That's bloody bollocks! We protected ourselves from pirates, and they kept causing shit so we decided to get rid of them! So what if they work for you? We don't have to listen to some bitch just because you happen to know the guy in charge." said Morrigan seemingly finished her venting. Balalaika eyed her coldly.

"I don't remember inviting you to speak, and if you don't watch your tongue you just might lose it." Morrigan gritted her teeth, and they showed as the anger on her face built.

"Morrigan, it's okay just calm down." said Artyom.

"Like hell I will!" seethed Morrigan.

"We can't win this, I know Balalaika and we'll be fine, so just settle down." Morrigan exhaled roughly from her nose began walking over to him.

"Fine," she said sullenly and clearly not fine with it at all.

"That's a good girl," said Balalaika. Morrigan ignored the barbed insult and refused to answer Balalaika. Balalaika turned her attention to Artyom. "Well I do believe that you're going to have to come with me," said Balalaika.

"Why?" asked Artyom not understanding.

"Well we have to make amends, call off hits, take the bomb off you're car etc," said Balalaika. Artyom got a look of comical disbelief on his face.

"You put a bomb on my car?" asked Artyom still unbelieving.

"Well I didn't know how many people you had in here, so I might not have been able to kill you with a gun." said Balalaika as if it was the most logical thing in the world.

"Pretty bloody confident for coming here alone," said Morrigan sharply with blood drying under her nose. Balalaika actually laughed.

"Who ever said that I came alone?" With those words, Boris and a half dozen other soldiers came out from various parts of the hangar. Artyom and Morrigan looked around in shock. "I had originally just wanted two others, but Boris convinced me to bring another car along," continued Balalaika like nothing had happened. "So shall we go?" asked Balalaika in good cheer. She cast a glance at Morrigan. "You may want to put something else on." Morrigan looked indignant and Artyom appraised her.

"Cold in here, princess?" asked Artyom. Morrigan looked confused for a moment.

"Of course not, it's bloody twenty five degrees cel-," Morrigan got a knowing look on her face and threw her arms over her breasts red faced. "I didn't have time to get all my clothes on okay?" said Morrigan embarrassed that her nipples had been showing to a roomful of people.

"Just go grab your clothes, and make yourself presentable." said Balalaika seemingly to have no patience for Morrigan. Morrigan practically marched into the shower room, and returned a few moments later with a black tee-shirt over top, and Artyom assumed her under clothes. "This way Antanov," said Balalaika heading for the hangar exit.

"Artyom," said Morrigan. "His name is Artyom." Balalaika looked back, then kept walking her soldiers making sure that Morrigan and Artyom followed. Artyom saw one break off on the way to the cars and remove something, probably a bomb from under Artyom's car.

Artyom and Morrigan were placed in the back seat of one of the Mercedes and they began heading downtown. They started heading to a more residential district, and Artyom wondered where they were going. The guards they had with them in the car didn't seem to be interested in talking, but Artyom didn't feel like riding the whole way there in silence so he decided to talk to Morrigan.

"Hey Morrigan," began Artyom. "Thanks for saving me back there." Morrigan smiled in pleasure, and seemed to puff her chest out slightly.

"No problem love, but this makes what? Three times that I've saved you from certain death? I think I deserve some time off," said Morrigan.

"But you've only been working for a month," protested Artyom.

"Yeah, but with the high stress work environment I find that I need time to rest and recuperate." Morrigan got a playful grin on her face. "That and I have to put up with you on a daily basis, so I would say a raise would be in order."

"You're such a bitch," said Artyom. Morrigan apparently took offence to that, because she took Artyom in a headlock and started giving him a noogie.

"Take it back Artyom, take it back," said Morrigan rubbing her knuckles in his head.

"Okay, okay I take it back," said Artyom. Morrigan released him and sat back pleased with herself.

"Pussy," she said.

"Yeah, how does that taste anyways Morrigan?" asked Artyom. Morrigan glared at him, and reached out quickly for him. Artyom flinched. Morrigan patted him lightly on the head smiling sweetly.

"All in good time love, all in good time," said Morrigan in a tone that gave Artyom a sense of foreboding. That made two ominous threats in two days. He really had to keep his mouth shut. They arrived at an apartment building with what looked like an American car from the sixties out front.

They left the cars, and Balalaika led the way up with Boris. Artyom and Morrigan were a decent ways behind with the rest of the soldiers, before they started up too.

"Why did she bring us here?" asked Morrigan. Artyom shrugged.

"Could be one of her offices," he reasoned. After all, what was the worst that could happen?

Balalaika walked into the Lagoon Town Offices, and sat down on one of the couches without an invitation, then lit a cigar. Revy was eager for news, and practically ran up to Balalaika and sat on a couch opposite her eager for news. Boris stood respectively behind Balalaika, ready to act should the need arise.

"So are they six feet under or what?" demanded Revy eagerly. Balalaika took a puff of her cigar before answering.

"They have been dealt with adequately, and Lagoon with be compensated in full." said Balalaika crossing her legs and leaning back into the couch, cigar held regally in her right hand. Revy laughed gleefully.

"You're fucking awesome sis, I just wish I could have been there to see you put them down myself." said Revy imagining relieving some of her anger on the people who had caused her so much trouble. Rock on the other hand felt sorry for Morrigan, she seemed like a good person and didn't seem to belong here. In truth she was kind of like him, just willing to use a gun.

"So you're going to reimburse us for the damages suffered at our building?" asked Dutch.

"Goodness no," said Balalaika as if Dutch had just said something incredibly ridiculous. Dutch furrowed his brow.

"Then who is?" asked Dutch.

"Why they are," said Balalaika.

"Sis, what are you talking about?" asked Revy suspiciously.

"Lieutenant Artyom will be covering all damages to your business. I served with him in Afghanistan, so I know he will keep his word. Even if he does complain about it." said Balalaika taking another puff of her cigar.

"Who is Artyom?" asked Dutch.

"Why he's the leader of the merc group that has been interfering with your business." said Balalaika as if it was common knowledge. Just then, Artyom and Morrigan walked in escorted by Balalaika's soldiers.

"It's the fucking leprechaun bitch!" said Revy pointing. She noticed the blood on Morrigan's face and the small cut on her neck. "Cut yourself shaving?" taunted Revy.

"Sit on it and rotate bitch." said Morrigan sitting down, but more like being pushed down onto the couch by the escorting soldiers. Artyom was put beside Morrigan.

"Now, now ladies let's keep this civilized," said Balalaika in a level voice.

"Uh uh, "I've got some business to settle with these bastards and I want fucking blood." said Revy seething. Her hands were twitching as if she wanted to draw her holstered Beretta's.

"Revy just let it go," said Dutch. Revy practically growled back a response.

"Not until I pound this bitch into the ground for that cheap shot in the yellow flag."

"Anytime anywhere ya bloody bitch," said Morrigan. They entered a stare down, and Balalaika broke it with a weary sigh.

"I can see that we're not going to get any business done while these two are so angry at each other, so I propose that we get them to let off some steam," said Balalaika tapping some ash from her cigar and uncrossing her legs.

"Fine by me," said Revy reaching for her Cutlas.

"Not like that Revy dear," said Balalaika as she rose. "If you kill her, Artyom will become completely unreasonable and you won't get any money at all."

"Then how the hell are we supposed to do this?" asked Revy looking to Balalaika. Morrigan's sea coloured eyes shifted so she was looking at her too.

"Why Revy, you're going to have a punch out, as I believe they call it these days."

"Some good old fashioned bare knuckled boxing," said Dutch grinning. "They might get hurt, but no ones going to die. Sounds perfect to me."

"Wait, are we really going to allow this to happen?" asked Rock incredulous. "I mean we're going to get our money and they're going to leave us alone, so why do they need to fight?"

"Look at them," said Balalaika to Rock. "They both want to fight, and both aren't going to back down." Revy and Morrigan were sending death glares at each other, neither one breaking the staring contest. "You have to realize Rock, that sometimes violence in the answer to problems."

"We doing this, or do I have to stare at this ugly yank bitch all day?" said Morrigan with a voice filled with promised violence, but it was level and even.

"I'm gonna break all your teeth, so you have to eat your fucking potatoes through a straw," said Revy menacingly.

"Well it's settled then," said Balalaika heading for the door. "Come along now everyone, I don't think these two can restrain themselves much longer." Everyone in the room followed Balalaika outside, and to the fight. Morrigan and Revy glared at each other the whole way outside.

They went to the alley out behind the Lagoon offices, to conclude their business. It was a narrow alley, filled with trash, dumpsters, and practically a solid wall of buildings on either side creating a cage effect. Morrigan took off her tee-shirt, and cracked her knuckles. She rolled her neck and then adopted a low fighting stance, fists out and up. Her eyes were completely focused.

Revy cracked her neck first to the left then to the right, and held her fists to her sides eyes speaking of blood lust. She stood straight and tall, not even bothering to get into a fighting stance. They faced each other across a distance of fifteen feet, and were just waiting the signal to begin.

"I still don't think that we should do this," said Rock. "I mean there's no point to it."

"The point is that they hate each other," said Artyom. Rock looked at him. "As long as people are able to hold grudges, as long as we are different or hold different values or codes of ethics we will fight. It is human nature to hate the unknown and the different, and as long as we are able to we will fight to prove that our views are correct. This however," said Artyom pausing, "Is a fight of pure aggression."

"Well said Artyom, I see you've learned a thing or two being a mercenary." said Balalaika.

"I guess," said Artyom shrugging off the compliment.

"Very well ladies, you may begin," said Balalaika calmly.

With a cry of rage Revy ran forwards towards Morrigan, fist upraised. Morrigan deepened her stance and waited. Just when Revy was almost upon her, Morrigan shifted her weight, and let loose a lightning fast side kick. It caught Revy in the stomach and propelled her back and into a pile of garbage. First point to Morrigan. Trying to capitalize on her advantage, Morrigan rushed forwards and tried to land another kick on Revy, but she rolled out of the way before Morrigan could land it, resulting in the kick crushing in the side of a garbage bag. They were on an even footing again and they circled looking for an opening. Morrigan attacked this time when Revy's back was towards the wall, and threw a rabbit punch at Revy's head. Revy blocked it, but Morrigan drove her real attack into Revy's gut with a left punch that she put her weight into. Spittle flew from Revy's mouth, but she was by no means done. She held Morrigan's arm and punched her in the head, once, twice, three times. Morrigan hit Revy with a weak spear hand to the throat, which caused Revy to release. Morrigan grabbed her in a headlock, and forced her to bend at the waist and began driving her knee into Revy's stomach at one point actually lifting her off the ground. Revy managed to break free after delivering a punch to Morrigans stomach. They broke apart and circled once more. They rushed each other with the force of a freight train, and it turned into a true fight of hatred. They threw everything they had, blocking what they could and taking what they couldn't. It appeared that Morrigan was winning though. Despite the fact that Revy was extremely tough and knew how to fight, Morrigan had been trained to make every hit count and how to use technique to make it hurt more. They threw blows at each other so fast, that Artyom had trouble keeping up with it. It would be over soon though, Revy was tiring and Morrigan was still going strong. Even still their eyes held all the anger and if will alone decided this battle, it would never end. No matter who took what, the glare remained and they never broke eye contact if at all possible. Then the fight changed drastically.

Going in for a finishing blow, Morrigan stepped on a beer bottle and it rolled out from under her foot. Her feet flew out from under her and Morrigan hit the ground with a mild thump. Revy was on her in a moment. Revy straddled Morrigan so she couldn't move her arms and couldn't lift her torso. Then Revy began raining blows down. Punch after punch hit Morrigan, and each one shifted her head violently. Even like this, Morrigan tried to fight. She tried to throw Revy off, and even managed to hook her legs around Revy's throat, but she was unable to shift her off. Morrigan's eyes started getting hazy and her head fell back to rest on the ground, her eyes staring off. Blood was running down from both Revy and Morrigan, but more and more seemed to be coming from Morrigan with each hit. When she went limp and couldn't hold bring her head up anymore, Revy grabbed the front of her shirt and pulled her up preparing to finish the job. Morrigan's head lolled as if lifeless and it was like she didn't see the fist about to fall.

"Revy I believe that's enough," said Balalaika from off to the side. Revy stopped her fist inches from Morrigan's face.

"Heh, well I won anyways so there's no need to kill the bitch I guess,"said Revy standing triumphantly and dropping Morrigan back down. Artyom rushed over to Morrigan and helped her to her feet, supporting almost all of her weight as he hung on to her. His leg protested, but he ignored it.

"No...no," said Morrigan weakly and disoriented as if in a daze. "You won't want me if I'm bloody."

"I'll want you no matter what princess, so come on." Morrigan smiled a too sweet a smile for her bloody face.

"Thanks Arty...love...," she said as if far away. Artyom helped her back to the side and set her down on a chair. She sat breathing normally, not seeming to notice the blood streaming down her face.

"Now Artyom," began Balalaika. "You are going to give Dutch a blank check. He will find out how much you have cost him and you will pay it. I will check it over and make sure he is not gouging you unnecessarily and you are to leave his business alone and he will leave yours alone. If I hear at any time that either of you have broken these conditions you will have to deal with me. Am I understood?" asked Balalaika with a tone of voice that did not leave room for argument.

"I understand Kapitan," said Artyom respectfully.

"Also since you are using land in my area of the city, you are to pay a monthly sum of 5% of your total profits to me." continued Balalaika.

"What?" said Artyom surprised.

"This is how this city works, if you want to survive, you have to follow the rules."

"I can't afford to pay you and the cops," Artyom protested.

"I'm sure that you'll find a way to make do," said Balalaika. "I'm actually giving you a deal since we're comrades, if you want to pay what I charge the other businesses well that can be arranged." Artyom sighed in defeat.

"Very well, you'll get your cut." Balalaika seemed pleased for a moment, then weary.

"It is different here isn't it?" said Balalaika. "I would much rather solve problems here like I did in Afghanistan, but I have to turn a profit or else my soldiers and I would be out on the street."

"Yeah," said Artyom wistfully. "It was better when the Soviet Union was fitting the bill for everything." Balalaika smiled as if a fond memory had just come forth.

"Yes, it was better then."

"Kapitan, would you like to resume our chess games? I know you are busy, but it would be nice to catch up."

"I think I can manage that. Artyom."

"Thank you Kapitan," said Artyom. After that, things seemed to go by quickly. He gave Dutch his blank check, ignored the insults coming from Revy, and called a cab for him and Morrigan after they cleaned her up.

The ride back in the cab was quiet, but Morrigan was nervous. What did I say when I was out of it? She thought worriedly. She wasn't thinking clearly at the time, and she was worried that she might have said something that she didn't want Artyom to know yet. She cleared her throat, and tried to approach it as casual as possible.

"Hey Artyom," she began acting only half interested.

"Yeah?"

"What did I say when I was out of it? I mean did I say something stupid or what?" probed Morrigan.

"No more than usual," said Artyom trying to hide his grin. Morrigan punched him lightly in the arm.

"Come on you twat, you know what I mean." said Morrigan.

"Well in truth not much, just something about me not wanting you, because you're bloody." Morrigan felt her stomach lurch. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, she thought frantically. Did I tell him? "And other than that, you just called me Arty and love." Morrigan felt her stomach settle.

"Okay, that's it?" said Morrigan trying not to sound relieved.

"Why was there something else you were supposed to say?" teased Artyom.

"No!" said Morrigan a little too forcefully. Artyom raised an eyebrow.

"You sure that your okay?" asked Artyom concerned.

"Yeah, just fine love, just fine." said Morrigan leaning back into her seat and closing her eyes. Needless to say, when they told Jacques the news about paying more protection money to the Russian Mob, Artyom was sure they heard his cry of anguish all the way back to Paris. He was sure they heard it on the moon when they told him that they had to pay for all damages to Black Lagoon.

AN: Well this was a touching chapter to write, excluding Morrigan and Artyom getting curb stomped. Then again that is technically touching so ehhhhh take it however. Well Balalaika has laid down the law, and Artyom has to leave Lagoon alone now. With the rate I'm putting these out at, I might actually be able to put out another chapter before I leave so That's pretty cool. I had originally wanted Morrigan to win the fight, but Revy kept losing in the other fights so I decided to give her a win. I was wondering if I made Morrigan out to be a punching bag, but she did fight Balalaika and Revy two of the most terrifying women in existence, so maybe she did okay. She sure did better than Artyom though. I think that Lagoon ended up winning the little war, because they're getting back everything they lost, while Artyom is just out of his money. I think I might get around to revealing a little more about Jacques in the next chapter, and I think I've made a cool back story for him, but it won't all be revealed at once. Also am I making Morrigan too clingy to Artyom or no?


	10. A little Irish Birdie

**Chapter 10 A little Irish Birdie**

**AN: **Well as you can guess from the title, this will be Morrigan heavy in writing. I wanted to explore her character a little more, and I don't want to strictly follow the storyline just writing each original arc one after the other going "lol, it's the same but now my guys are there too. Aren't they awesome?" So I want to make them seem like they have a place in Roanupur other than following Lagoon around. In the next chapter I will try and have Lagoon as the focus again. I also had a couple of requests to have more back stories for my characters, so a chap like this might pop up occasionally. Well enjoy.

Morrigan was currently sprawled in her queen sized bed and loving every minute of it. Her face felt, and was still slightly puffy from the fight and she was sore all over. Her head hurt, her ribs hurt, her nose hurt, and she just had a dull ache in her body. Her face was probably the worst off part of her though. It still very tender even after a week, Revy had been thorough in the fight. Morrigan respected that though, if you were going to fight, than you fought to win, no exceptions. After her fight with Revy, Brent had told her to take it easy and recuperate. So she was doing just that. It was already eleven, and she was still in her pyjamas lying on her queen sized bed and watching Jurassic Park. It was still a fairly new movie and it actually pretty good. The only thing that would have made it better was if Mel Gibson was in it. Morrigan allowed herself a small fantasy involving her alone in a room with Mel. As much as she liked Artyom, she would be gone in a flash if she ever had a chance at the man. She was eating popcorn, and watching it on her own personal TV. With the amount of money she made, she actually had no idea what to buy, so she had started by buying some of the nicest furniture she could find for her little house. Even so, that had only taken half of her first paycheck and she didn't have to buy food or pay rent so the rest was pleasure money.

She had bought a computer, a cell phone, a large TV for the ground floor, books, movies, candy, a Super Nintendo, and pretty much whatever she wanted. It was probably the sweetest job she had ever had with more perks, and less danger than working in the army. Still, sometimes she missed the discipline and simplicity of being a soldier. Brent had said for her to take a week off, and she had to start working again tomorrow. She had enjoyed the time off, but was getting restless. She had been trained for action, and she was just sitting around. Still though, if it was her day off and she was going to make the most of it.

Morrigan watched the movie intently, munching popcorn. She was watching a part where two kids and the archaeologist were scaling a deactivated electric fence, and heading back to the main area of the island. Morrigan leaned further back into her little pile of pillows and made herself comfortable. She threw another handful of popcorn in her mouth, and picked a few pieces off her shirt that fell down and popped them into her mouth. She licked off the excess butter. Some people said that she put too much popcorn on her popcorn, but what did they know? It added flavour or in Geoffrey's words drowned it. What did the yank know about good food anyways though? They were reactivating the power grid in the park so if the kid didn't hurry up, he was in for a rude surprise. The kid was afraid of heights, and wasn't jumping off.

"Just get off the bloody fence already," said Morrigan to herself annoyed at the kid. Hell in training she had to jump from five times that height and roll then keep running. With full combat load no less, so this kid could seriously suck it up. There was even someone at the bottom waiting to catch him. With a flip of a switch, the fence was activated and the kid flew off and landed in a heap on the ground, unmoving. It appeared that he was dead, his small body lifeless. Morrigan dropped her popcorn, and stared blankly at the screen. The kid on the screen was quickly replaced by another on a cold cobblestone street in a pool off blood. She quickly shut off the TV and went into the bathroom. She gripped the sink with white knuckles, and wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead. She felt slightly nauseous, though each time it got less and less. Morrigan looked at herself in the mirror hoping to find some answers. She saw a young woman staring back at her with raven hair, sea coloured eyes, and a bruised face. She was pretty, but not overly beautiful. Was this the face of a killer? If the mirror had an answer it remained silent.

Morrigan had been pulled into a very different place for a moment, when she had seen that kid killed. It had brought back memories that she would rather have stayed buried down, but they never did. After two years it shouldn't bother her this much, but it did. Wasn't time supposed to heal all wounds? She had been back in Bosnia 1992, the day that would haunt her forever more. Morrigan splashed cold water on her face as the memory came back as it always did in vivid detail. The chill of the water helped clear her head, but not the memories. She wished that they would just leave.

The sky was grey and overcast, and there was a deep chill in the air. The kind that seemed to seep into your bones and permeate cold into every part of your body. She remembered the feeling as the muddy ground squelched under her boots as it held onto her boots as she took another step, letting go with a pop and the weight of her FN in her hands. They had been slated to be replaced with a newer rifle, but for the moment they made due with the trusty FAL rifle. The cool air made her breath show and appear like she was breathing smoke. Her frosty breath forming a cloud before dissipating each time she exhaled like she was some sort of dragon. They were in some out of the way village, and her along with the rest of the platoon had no idea what they were doing out here. They were basically muscle for some shady guy who some people said was from MI-5 or MI-6. It was all rubbish though, why would an intelligence officer be here? It just didn't make any sense and it was probably more conspiracy theory bullshit from Piper. That chatterbox was dependable, but goddamned annoying. Morrigan rubbed her ears trying to drive the cold away. When they were moderately warm she pulled her hand away, only for the warmth to immediately leave again causing her ears to protest and for Morrigan to be more uncomfortable then before. She shifted her Beret, and wished it was longer so it could cover her ears.

"Sergeant McCarthy," said her commanding officer lieutenant Fletcher, walking up to her at a brisk pace and his nose red from the cold.

"Yes sir," responded Morrigan immediately not saluting. Back in the Isles, that would have been a great insult to her lieutenant. Here it helped him keep his brains inside his head. Snipers were just waiting for an opportunity to score a kill on an officer. Odds were that there wasn't one nearby, but it didn't hurt to be cautious.

"Get your section together, we're needed in the town square," said Fletcher, his dark brown moustache moving with his words. It bobbed like it was the one speaking, and Morrigan had, had to train herself not to look at it when he spoke.

"Right away sir, but what for? Is there a situation that we should be prepared for?" Asked Morrigan concerned about possible hostiles.

"You'll find out when you get there sergeant, now get a move on." said Fletcher his moustache appearing irritated. He did too, but somehow the moustache seemed more important.

"Yes sir," said Morrigan giving a slight nod before going to comply with her orders. They had probably found an arms cache, and the suit wanted protection while he searched through it. Morrigan smiled to herself, bloody bureaucrats. "Alright lads, my section on me!" said Morrigan projecting her voice from her diaphragm. Quickly the nine other members of her section fell in, red berets bobbing as they moved and a symphony of wet squelches sounded as they fell in. "Alright, the captain wants us in the centre of town. Don't know what for, so don't bother asking. I want your eyes up and looking, but fingers off the triggers, I don't want any accidents on my watch. If any of you pop off a shot without my say so, or without being shot at first, you will have to deal with me personally and I will not be happy. Am I understood?" There was a chorus of yes sergeant, and a few small smiles. Morrigan was one of the only females in the company, and she was the shortest member of her platoon. Some of her troops practically towered over her. They were all Royal Marines, and Morrigan knew there wouldn't be any accidents. They still found it funny to be threatened by the small Irish woman though who was half their size. Ruddy bastards, thought Morrigan grinning lightly at the thought.

They moved further into the town, watching the houses and alleyways for any possible ambushes. Morrigan peeked around a corner of a building and it appeared clear, so they moved up covering each other. The squelching had ceased when they got onto the cobblestone roadways, and there was only a muffled clacking of boots on the ground. Morrigan didn't know what was going on, but it felt strange for a lack of a better word. There was no one in the streets, no one watching them from windows, and well... no one around. It made her feel uneasy, like the calm before the storm. Everything was a dull lifeless colour, painted drab grey by the overcast sky and sullen clouds.

"Eyes up lads and keep sharp, we could be in for a wee bit of trouble here." said Morrigan rapidly checking around her with her rifle. Where the bloody hell was everyone?

They continued moving, past empty stores, abandoned cars, and looking into a cafe, half eaten meals seemingly abandoned. Morrigan's hackles were up so to speak and she was getting a very bad feeling. It was like going through a ghost town. She heard talking ahead however and kept moving, still with a feeling of dread in her. Her bad feeling dissipated, however when they found everyone in the town square milling around under guard, though a sliver remained. Why were they all in the town square?

The suit was easy enough to find, though he wore the same fatigues as the rest of the marines, it was just the way he stood, the way he presented himself that gave him away. Morrigan was good at picking out who wasn't who they said they were, it was one of her gifts per say. The man was technically doing everything right, holding his rifle correctly, standing properly, and he even moved like a soldier. There was just something off about him though, an aura that he gave off like a perfume that sold him out. She walked up to him after telling her section to help watch the village inhabitants. There was only around fifty people in the square. Most had probably already fled to somewhere safer or gone across the border. It looked like a great deal of the population had fled though, because the village seemed able to hold at least ten times the amount present. They were talking in low whispers amongst themselves and shooting brief looks at the Royal Marines around. Morrigan had no idea why they were so nervous, they were NATO, they were the good guys here.

"Sir, I was told to come see you for my orders," said Morrigan slinging her rifle over her back. The man looked at her like she was crazy.

"Oy, I don't know who ya think I am, but I'm just a private sarge, no one tells me nothin." He pointed to his single chevron and gave an apologetic smile. The suit was putting on a good act, but it wasn't fooling her.

"Can you please not insult my intelligence sir, I don't care if you are MI-6 so long as you tell me what we're doing," said Morrigan jokingly. "I'm not going to blow your cover Mr. Field Agent, so just come clean with me here." This guy was probably some minor inspector thinking he was seeing the real 'war', and out for a jaunt thinking he was being sneaky in a privates uniform. Or she was wrong and acting stupid in front of a private. That had happened before and it was usually awkward for her. Sometimes she was able to pass it off as a joke and others she had to walk away head down and take the teasing that was inevitably to come.

"Uh, I dunno what's going on sarge, is this some kinda joke?" said the fake private. Morrigan got the tiniest apprehension that she was indeed talking to a private and looking stupid. Well might as well run with it, thought Morrigan.

"Oy lads!" said Morrigan moderately loud over her shoulder. "Mr. MI-6 here doesn't want to talk, he's starting to hurt my one and only feeling. Guess I'm not pretty enough aye?" There was some laughter from her section and Morrigan turned back to him chuckling lightly to herself. Well I had better go before I embarrass myself anymore, thought Morrigan. She was surprised, however when the man stepped in closer and spoke in a harsh hushed whisper.

"You had better shut your goddamned mouth, before you blow my cover you dumb tart!" said the now truly fake private in a harsh whisper. Morrigan stopped smiling.

"I don't know how the hell you got that information sergeant, but if you don't want to spend the rest of your life in a deep dark hole you will keep your bloody mouth shut. Do I make myself clear, or do I need to repeat myself?" The mans demeanour was different, it was no longer one of relaxed boredom, but of rigid posture and restrained malice. Holy shit, thought Morrigan worriedly.

"Perfectly clear," said Morrigan chastened and still surprised. "Sir," she added almost as an afterthought.

"Don't call me sir," hissed the man. "If you want your orders go to the captain with the coffee cup. Now leave and quit drawing attention to me." Morrigan stood there for what must have been a second too long. "Now," insisted the man in a malevolent tone. Morrigan started walking away, towards the captain, not quite knowing what to make of the situation. "Sorry there sarge, I guess I like a lotta you're mates," said the man adopting his previous disposition. Like it was a switch he could flip on or off. Morrigan wondered how people could do that.

Morrigan walked up to the captain and stopped a respectful distance away. "Sir," said Morrigan politely. The captain turned to regard her. He had dark brown eyes, and a craggy face filled with smile lines and creases. He was her company captain, and Morrigan was one of his favourites. Rogers liked to pretend that she was an armrest and lean his elbow on top of her head and pretend that she wasn't there for a while. Sometimes he would continue talking to another officer while he did it. Rogers would always claim that he had a portable armrest that he was using whenever she managed to get his attention. He would usually stop around the time that she started to threaten biting his hand. He hadn't believed her the first time and had been thoroughly surprised when he got a light chomp on his hand. His name was Captain Rogers, and yes they made jokes about him and Morrigan. Rogering Morrigan was one, Irish occupation, Morrigan's strict chain of command, or some other use of the slang for sex and her name. He looked at her like he was deep in thought and he was hardly even noticing her.

"Afternoon sir," said Morrigan. The captain remained deep in thought, and Morrigan thought that he hadn't heard her. "Sir," said Morrigan a little more loudly. Still no response. Morrigan was going to try and get his attention again when he nonchalantly brought his arm up and rested his elbow on Morrigans red beret. Morrigan pursed her lips in annoyance and glared daggers at the captain. Rogers rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"Now I have a task that I need done, but I don't have any of my sergeants around. Now how am I going to do this?" he mused to himself as he continued rubbing his chin.

"I'm right here captain," said Morrigan in a monotone. She swore that if he was going to do this again she was going to take a finger this time.

"I suppose I could get a corporal to do it, but that would be breaking the chain of command." Rogers leaned more of his weight onto Morrigan's head. Morrigan swore she saw one corner of his mouth curl up briefly.

"You're leaning on one of your sergeants sir," said Morrigan in an irritated monotone.

"I could do it myself, but how would that look a captain doing a sergeants job? Ah well I'm sure if I wait long enough one of them will show up." said Rogers making a point not to look at Morrigan.

"I'm getting hungry sir." said Morrigan in the same monotone. Rogers looked down like he had just noticed her and was surprised.

"Morrigan when did you get here?"

"You've been leaning on me sir," said Morrigan with Rogers arm still on her head.

"No," said Rogers playfully. "I was leaning on my portable armrest, but its gone now. Funny isn't it?"

"Very funny sir," said Morrigan drawing out the words.

"Well what do you need sergeant, I am a busy man after all?"

"You can take your arm of my head first sir."

"Is that still there?" asked Captain Rogers in mock surprise.

"Yes sir it is."

"Well funny that."

...

...

"Sir."

"Yes sergeant?"

"Your arm."

"What about it?" asked Rogers with a wide eyed look of innocence.

"It's still there."

"Is it really?"

"I'll bite you." Morrigan clacked her teeth together for emphasis. Rogers withdrew his arm like Morrigan's head was red hot.

"Threatening a superior officer is a serious crime Miss McCarthy, are you aware of that?" said Rogers looking down at her in mock intimidation. "Do you know what happens to bad soldiers who threaten their officers?"

"Get cake?"

"No sergeant they don't get cake."

"Pie?" asked Morrigan trying to sound hopeful.

"Yes sergeant they get pie." said Rogers patting her head.

"I prefer fingers sir," said Morrigan eyeing Rogers hand and playfully licking her lips before lunging out with her head and clacking her teeth.

"Well if you can control your appetite, we can get down to our job." Rogers took a sip of coffee before continuing. "I assume you've met our resident field agent?" he said casting a glance in the direction of the fake private.

"You mean the tosser?"

"No sergeant, the field agent."

"The well paid tosser?"

"There you go sergeant. Anyways, we have actually managed to corral a high ranking member of a Serbian terrorist operation here, problem is that we don't know who he is. There's rumoured to be an arms dump in town and I've got a section combing through the likely section of town looking for it with a couple of investigators. The field agent over there."

"Well paid tosser," cut in Morrigan.

"Oh how could I forget? The well paid tosser believes that there is someone there who knows who our mystery man is."

"There are women and children here sir, it could get messy if we try and pull him out of there." said Morrigan panning her gaze over the assembled villagers. Rogers sighed and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Yeah it's always harder when there's kids involved." Rogers got a smile on his face. "I heard you say women sergeant, are you saying that you're a delicate and sensitive creature needing constant nurturing and -OW!" exclaimed Rogers as Morrigan punched him lightly in the arm and he over exaggerated it. "You just assaulted me sergeant." said Rogers feigning extreme pain and indignation. "There will be a punishment for this."

"I don't get apple?"

"No Sergeant, you get lemon meringue."

"Oh, come on sir that's harsh." Captain Rogers turned his nose up at Morrigans protests.

"I'm sorry, but that's your punishment." They stared at each other for a moment neither backing down, then Morrigan started chuckling and it turned into a laugh. Captain Rogers face split into a grin.

"Just get your section to make sure no one leaves the town square, okay sergeant? I know that you may not be delicate, but your still sensitive so I hope I'm not imposing too much on you." Morrigan spat on the ground and looked back at him straight faced. "Well your still a lady, I think." said Rogers with a look of mild surprise on his face.

"I would prove it to you sir, but then I would get in _trouble_, you'd get _divorced, _then things would get _complicated_." said Morrigan raising a hand to accentuate each point as if weighing the possible penalties for going for a quickie behind some houses. "Then again I do have a thing for older men," said Morrigan doing her best to sound seductive and pretend to be lusting after Rogers.

"Just get to work sergeant."

"On it sir." said Morrigan grinning, then clicked her tongue twice and went to go grab her section. She made it about ten steps before a massive explosion split the air. It was pandemonium after that. The villagers started panicking and some tried to run out of the square, only to be pushed back by Morrigan's section and a platoon from B company. Everyone was yelling and screaming and pushing. With all the noise it was impossible to immediately reestablish order.

"What the bloody hell was that?" called out a surprised soldier who was swinging his rifle around looking for targets.

"Shit look at that!" called an unknown voice. Everyone looked farther into the village, and saw a large cloud of black smoke and flames licking at the sky.

"We've got bloody bombs here!" cried a frantic voice.

"Calm down and keep your bloody weapons tight!" shouted Morrigan trying to control the situation, but it was no use. With all the confusion it was impossible to be heard. Captain Rogers closed the small distance between them, his playful demeanour gone.

"Sergeant, I want you and your section to go and find out what's happening over there. Bring back any survivors you can, I'm calling in a med evac " His tone was commanding, and he wasn't confused or startled. He was an experienced officer who had turned down promotion to stay in the field with his men. Morrigan trusted him completely.

"Yes sir, I'll bring our lads back." Rogers nodded in acknowledgement before running off to help control the situation. "B Section on me!" shouted Morrigan over the din. "B Section on me!" she kept shouting it until her men were with her. "Alright lads we've got a job to do. If there's any of our mates over there still on gods green earth we bring them home. Any questions?" There were none. "Alright lads I'm on point, skirmish order, let's keep this tight!"

Morrigan and her section started moving out of the square, but stopped when a white faced private ran in from the direction of the explosion, and straight for the explosion. Morrigan brought her section with her over to the private to see what the situation was.

"S-sir they're gone, they're all bloody gone!" exclaimed the private.

"Calm down soldier, who's all gone?"

"The section, every single one! I was on street watch, when it went. I was, I was, I," stuttered the man.

"Just relax lad, you're safe now. I'm sending a sergeant with a section to go help. You just calm down and take it easy, you've been through a lot." Captain Rogers smiled and tried to reassure the younger man. He seemed to regulate his breathing and calm down with the calm words of a superior officer.

"Sergeant McCarthy, I thought I told you to get a move on." said Rogers turning on Morrigan.

"Yes sir, just checking on the situation," said Morrigan turning to go.

"Thank you sir," said the private. Then he did something that made Morrigans stomach drop. He raised his arm in a salute. In all the confusion and violence he must have fallen back on instinct drilled into him while on base.

"YOU FOOL!" shouted Morrigan lunging for his arm and trying to pull it down, before someone saw it. The realization hit Captain Rogers a second before the bullet.

The bullet hit him in the side of the head, and it didn't even cause a large hole , just the bullet passing in one side, and out the other leaving a small entry and exit wound. He was pitched to the side as his distinctive red beret was knocked off his head and he fell to the ground. A look of disbelief that his time was up etched on his face. He hit the ground in a lifeless heap his and red blood started seeping from his head staining the cobblestones red. The red Beret fluttered down beside him, a neat hole in each side of it. Morrigan just stared in shock. How could he just be dead like that? A man who she had just moments ago been joking with her? Who had been a constant in the company since she had been sixteen? A cold rage over came Morrigan and rather than try and control it, she let it consume her.

"I want that snipers head on a fucking platter!" growled out Morrigan as she moved for cover. "Smith, Brookes, you lot are on counter sniper duty. I want to hang his head on a goddamned mantle, move, MOVE!"

Smith and Brookes ran for vantage points with their marksmen FN's and hurriedly complied. The fake private ran up to her and dropped all pretences.

"Sergeant, we can not allow the Serbian Lieutenant to escape."

"Not my fucking problem," said Morrigan flipping the safety off her FN and checking over the higher vantage points. By now the crowd was in full panic and trying to flee.

"If you let him get away then all of this would be for nothing." Morrigan considered shooting him. Captain Rogers had NOT died for nothing.

"What the bloody hell are you gonna do ya priss bastard, huh? Ask politely for him to step forward so we can arrest him? Give me a bleeding break."

"No sergeant I want you to kill them, all of them." said the fake private in lethal seriousness. In her correct state of mind, Morrigan would have been appalled, now she was considering it.

"I'm not shooting civilians without a damn good excuse." said Morrigan coldly. "I'm not going to prison for this."

"I can get you off of the charges." said the fake private as if he were promising her forbidden fruit. Morrigan eyed him suspiciously.

"How?" If at all possible the man seemed pleased as he explained it.

"We're in the middle of nowhere, and there is no record of us being here. Who's to say we were here anyways? Those damn Croatians huh?" The snake actually smiled and Morrigan actually considered it.

"I need a reason," said Morrigan finally. "The men won't keep it quiet if I just start shooting for no reason, no matter how we justify it."

"Just wait." They turned and watched the struggling crowd, and then one managed to break away and run. A Royal Marine either new and jumpy, or wanting revenge gunned him down as he ran. "Now watch this," said the devils advocate at her side. In the group of people, a shot rang out, and wounded a Marine causing him to fall. That was all the vindication that Morrigan needed.

"GUN!" shouted Morrigan and she began firing fully automatically from her FN into the crowd. She had kept the Argentinean rifle from the Falklands and was now spraying the heavy rounds into the crowd. The rest of the Marines followed suit either through want for vengeance or confusion. It was a massacre. It was like an unseen force was throwing the people back and to the ground, tearing them to pieces. Like death was sweeping his scythe in gleeful arcs killing and maiming at his leisure. The brass casings glittered as they fell, smiling malevolently knowing the death that they had sent forth. The rifles barked and spat forth metal and flame devouring those in front of them. The rifles bucked harshly and the ends heated with the constant fire. In a few moments, the villagers were all dead. Morrigan wasn't even checking her targets, as long as it didn't have a red Beret and it was a dark shape, it died. She had switched to semi after her first clip had run dry. She fired, saw a target and found another. It was quick, clean, and efficient killing. Morrigan was the last to fire a round, and the last to make a kill. Morrigan lowered her rifle and looked over the seen, still consumed with a cold hate. These bastards had killed good men today and now she had, had her vengeance. The fire of anger still burned brightly, demanding more blood for it to be extinguished. It vanished into thin air, as she saw the last target she had killed. It was a boy of no more than twelve years old, struck down by her hand. Morrigan stared stupefied at him. He was face down on the cold cobblestone ground, and a small amount of steam rose from him and the assembled dead as the warmth left their bodies forever. She had to steady herself and look away from the carnage. Morrigan felt sick and the world began to spin getting faster and faster till she thought that she might collapse. Everything seemed to fade away, the violence, the shouting, the cold, all that was left was an empty, nauseous feeling. She walked dumbly over to a nearby wall and leaned heavily against it as if she couldn't stand, ignoring input and a confirmation that the sniper who killed Captain Rogers had also been killed. Her legs shook and she fell to her knees She felt her stomach churn then she retched throwing up what little food was in her stomach. Morrigan wiped her mouth roughly and leaned her head against the hard brick wall. What had she done?

Morrigan pulled her head back from the cool mirror and looked at herself in the mirror. No, she finally decided. She was a good person, she had a soul. If it bothered her this much, than she must not be evil, must not be a killer. She would have to repent in one way or another, and she would find a way, but she was not a killer. Morrigan stripped down and had a hot shower, it felt cleansing like it was washing away her past misdeeds and sins. After she finished, she got dressed and turned the TV back on. Everyone was on the helicopter and heading off of the island.

"So the kid made it huh?" said Morrigan to herself. It always made her feel good to watch movies with happy endings. Too often things had a sad or bittersweet ending. Morrigan turned off the TV and VCR, then headed out of her little house. She was wearing a white tee-shirt with the Union Jack on the front and a pair of blue jeans with running shoes. She crossed the short distance to the main hangar and went to go see Artyom. As she was walking across the hangar, she listened to Angelika and Geoffrey arguing.

"No, no!" exclaimed Angelika. The MI-series is far superior to the Huey and Black Hawk. They are larger, can carry more people, carry more cargo and are easier to maintain, and don't cost an arm and a leg so there." said Angelika triumphantly.

"Yeah, but you can manoeuvre better in a Huey and Black Hawk allowing for better deployment of troops, extraction, and they're smaller so they're harder to hit and have better avionics. Also you won't drain an oil well to fill one up." countered Geoffrey. "As well as being able to mount rocket pods and machine guns on them."

"The hind can do all that and more, and won't break if you look at it funny!" said Angelika hotly. "Also the MI-series can mount rockets on them too so ha!" said Angelika sticking her tongue out at Geoffrey.

"Yeah well we've got the Apache and Cobra!" Morrigan walked away before she could hear the conclusion of the argument. Angelika was absent minded and ditsy, UNTIL you brought up aviation related topics, then she would argue like a pissed off wolverine until you admitted you were wrong. Once you did, she would return to her normal ditzy self, and if you didn't.

Morrigan walked up to the second floor, and noticed some construction going on. Jacques was knocking out a wall to link his office to Artyom's via a door. It looked like it was on break, because no one was working. Morrigan entered Artyom's office without knocking. He had his feet up on his desk and the phone to his ear talking to someone. Two seconds of listening and Morrigan knew it wasn't business. Artyom waved to her as she came in.

"So when can I meet up with you again? On Saturday, that's a long wait. I guess Yolanda is a bit of an uptight bitch huh? What? Oh, no I'll have Morrigan stay home on this one, it will just be me and you. No I'm her boss, I can tell her to do whatever. Yeah, I guess you could say that," said Artyom chuckling. Morrigan felt a twinge of anger in her.

"I'm going out love," said Morrigan. Artyom didn't answer her, but kept talking on the phone. "I'll have my phone on me if you need me at all." said Morrigan. Artyom continued talking on the phone. "I'll probably rent out a couple of thousand dollar hookers and lez out. You want to watch, join in maybe? I'm pretty horny today."

"Morrigan I'm on the phone, you're a big girl go have fun." Artyom returned to his conversation with Eda. It was so sweet it made her want to vomit.

"Thanks for caring asshole," said Morrigan leaving the office and walking down to the hangar floor. The argument had reached a fever pitch between Angelika and Geoffrey.

"NO YOU'RE WRONG, THE MI-'S ARE BETTER!" Angelika was pulling out all the stops on this one, but Geoffrey seemed to be holding his own. Morrigan walked up behind Angelika and pulled her into a headlock and began giving her a noogie.

"Ah, stop it Morrigan!" wailed Angelika.

"Not until you say uncle," said Morrigan continuing to noogie Angelika. She was practically bent over trying to get away.

"Uncle, uncle," said Angelika quickly.

"You need to do a wee bit better than that love," said Morrigan intensifying the noogie.

"UNCLE, UNCLE," shouted Angelika.

"In polish please dear."

"WUJEK, WUJEK!" cried Angelika speaking in her native tongue. "Now let me go," she said squirming.

"Now in Gaelic please." said Morrigan continuing her noogie assault.

"But I don't speak Gaelic," protested Angelika. "That's not fair!"

"Well than I guess that I'm not going to stop anytime soon then am I dear?" said Morrigan.

"Ahhh, Beznik!" said Angelika in desperation. "Beznik, Help!"

"He's not around love, it's just you and me," said Morrigan smiling. She had to stop soon though, Angelika could take a little bit of teasing, but man could she hold a grudge if you did too much.

"I think she asked you to let her go," said a very deep voice behind Morrigan. She stopped her noogie dead in her tracks and her smile disappeared. She looked over her shoulder slowly and saw a very large Albanian man directly behind her with an unreadable expression on his face. Morrigan let go of Angelika immediately.

"Beznik you old codger,I didn't see there, how have you been?" said Morrigan trying to plaster on a winning smile. It was having trouble staying on in face of Beznik's glare.

"Thanks Beznik," said Angelika trying to fix her hair. Beznik smiled at her.

"Did you remember to eat lunch?"

"Well no, I was working and I thought that I could just do it later," said Angelika straightening her hair. "I'm going for lunch at twelve so I should be good."

"It's twelve thirty Angelika," said Beznik patiently.

"Is it?" asked Angelika a look of innocent surprise on her face. "Well I guess I should eat after I finish up on the rotor shaft. But then the fuel lines need checked and the tail rotor is acting a little funny so."

"Angelika, I'm sure that it will be there to fix after you have something to eat."

"But if I leave, Geoffrey will try to fix it and screw it up," protested Angelika.

"I will not," said Geoffrey indignantly.

"I'll make sure he doesn't while you have something to eat," promised Beznik.

"Okay," said Angelika cheerily.

"Hey Angelika, we're still friends right?" asked Morrigan eyeing Beznik who was staring intently at her and making her nervous. Angelika considered her words for a moment, before brightening up.

"Yup," said Angelika cheerily.

"Hug?" asked Morrigan holding out her arms. Angelika came in and Morrigan watched Beznik over Angelika's shoulder while she hugged Angelika. He was watching her like a hawk.

"I'll see you later Morrigan." called Angelika going for lunch. Morrigan started trying to do all but run away, before a heavy hand came to rest on her shoulder. Beznik had an unreadable expression on his face. Morrigan felt immediately uncomfortable like the hand was going to crush her shoulder like a steel claw.

"You know," began Beznik nonchalantly. "When someone asks you to stop doing something, you really should before someone ends up getting hurt. You know what I mean?" Morrigan knew exactly what he meant.

"O-of course, I was just playing you know?" said Morrigan with a nervous laugh. Besnik didn't smile, Morrigan wondered idly how fast he could run. "It was just in good fun, but I won't do it again. Is that okay?"

"Okay, just make sure it doesn't happen again," said Beznik walking away. It felt like a ten tonne weight was lifted when he pulled away his hand. Morrigan let out breath she didn't know she had been holding and relaxed. Beznik could be scary when he wanted to be, there was something different about him, like being polite or civil was just an act. Artyom didn't seem to notice anything, but there was just something about him. Geoffrey was chuckling slightly.

"Not a bloody word," said Morrigan.

"I didn't say anything," said Geoffrey putting up his hands.

"You were thinking it," said Morrigan as she went to get something to eat too. In the main compound area of Cossack support, there was a mess hall where everyone could eat for free, and it had quite a selection. Most people had a place in town that they lived in, but a free meal was always welcome. The mess hall was a recent construction though, because if it had been here last week Balalaika would have gotten a nasty surprise. There was a barracks and a few other building that had been constructed since they had set up operations. Speaking of construction, Morrigan looked over at the new Lagoon office being put up. With Artyom's money of course. He had caved in way too quickly to that scar faced bitch Balalaika. What the hell kind of name was that anyways? Balalaika, slang for a mass produced rifle that thousands of service men had, had their hands all over. Come to think of it that name suited her well. Morrigan walked into the mess hall and saw a few couple dozen people inside. The Sabres were nearly finished their training, and there was about sixty or so who were going to make it through. Morrigan grabbed a tray and went to the food line. Morrigan didn't know how many people were involved with Cossack Support, but with all the pilots, mechanics, guards, and other menial workers or cooks, it was probably around a hundred and twenty.

Morrigan sat down with her meal and thought about the set up of the base. She figured that Artyom had kept his standard set up from when he had been operating in Africa, especially the way his team operated. They all stayed fairly close to their main base of operation, and actually had guard shifts and were putting up security fences. They were too used to operating in a place where you were under constant threat of attack. Hell, she had overheard Artyom talking to Jacques about buying armoured vehicles like a BTR or BDRM. The money that they were making from protecting drug shipments was more than enough to cover the costs of operating Cossack Support. Morrigan picked at her food.

Artyom was being a dick today and she didn't like it. Why the hell couldn't he see that Eda was just using him? She always had him running after her like a well trained puppy and always seemed to be trying to get something out of him, whether it be money or information about the competition. Artyom just assumed it was small talk when she asked him about his competition or who he was moving stuff for and how often. It was so bloody obvious it made her head hurt to think that Artyom couldn't see it. Not only that, but whenever Artyom tried to invite her over for some fun she would refuse. She claimed that she was saving herself for marriage being a nun and all, but if Eda was a virgin then Morrigan was a bloody saint. Morrigan huffed in irritation. She swore that if Eda WAS just using Artyom she would beat the ever loving shit out of her. Then again she might just do it if she was having a bad day to make her feel better. Morrigan allowed herself to imagine caving in Eda's face for a moment, it made her feel better. She didn't like her, Eda reminded her of that MI-6 guy in Bosnia. There was just something off about her. Though it could just be the fact she was an arms dealer and also a nun. That could explain the shift in behaviour from time to time. Artyom didn't seem to notice it, but sometimes Eda would become a hell of a lot more serious or professional. Like the time Artyom had told her how he had, had to hunt down a CIA agent who tried to ice him and his team after a job to keep it quiet. She had been goddamned interested in that, wanted the agent's name even. Morrigan stared down at her food sourly.

She wasn't really hungry for mess hall food, she had come late and since she had gotten lost in her thoughts it was starting to get cold and most of the fruit had been eaten already so there was only a couple of sickly looking pieces on her plate. She threw it out and decided to go into town to grab a bite to eat. She didn't feel like putting on a vest, but her browning was still on her hip waiting patiently. She went to the hangar and signed out a vehicle. Jacques and Brent had ended up buying a mixture of SUV's and Range Rover jeeps the day that Balalaika had paid them a visit. Morrigan made sure to keep her pistol on her at all times after that, there was no way she was being caught flat footed like that again. She made her way over to the SUV and did a quick check underneath. After seeing the bomb taken off of Artyom's car she had made it a point to always check. Morrigan got into the SUV and headed into town.

The SUV would pass most cursory inspections, but if you pulled up the fake bottom in the cargo compartment at the back, you would find a mini arsenal of automatic weapons, rifles, and quite possibly an RPG or LAW. Morrigan had convinced Beznik to buy some more Western European guns, so now the AK wasn't just the bog standard of Cossack Support. Though Beznik hadn't really needed much convincing to buy more guns.

It was noon and Roanupur was in full swing. The pushers were out on the streets selling poison, the 'working' girls were offering their services, and petty crimes were more common than saying hello. God did she hate this city, though it didn't bother her as much as when she first got here. Morrigan drove through town and looked for a suitable place to eat. Most looked pretty shifty, but there was one diner that looked pretty decent, so she pulled up out front. She got out and shut the door, eyeing some local tough guys looking at her jeep.

"Nice ride babe, how much do you want for it?" asked a one of the bruisers standing up. "I could give you a real good time for it, or you could just give it as a gift and be nice." His friends laughed and it seemed to encourage him. He looked and noticed the bruising on her face. "Looks like you had an accident, hopefully you won't have another, so why don't you just hand over the keys huh?" said the standing goon who was apparently their leader. Morrigan sighed in irritation. Why did she always have to put up with shit like this? Did he honestly think he could rob her? Morrigan pulled out her browning in one swift motion clicking the safety off and began walking gun raised towards him.

"Woah, woah, calm down I was just kidding." said the goon, his bravado leaving him. His friends got up and took off at the first sign of a gun. Amateurs.

"Sit," said Morrigan.

"What?" When the man didn't move immediately Morrigan put a round into the ground by his feet and he jumped.

"When I say sit, you bloody well sit, now fucking sit down." said Morrigan holding the gun level with his head. The goon sat down on the stoop he and his friends had been occupying. He was pale, and his bald head showed sweat beading on it.

"Listen, I-"

"Shut up," commanded Morrigan. The goon became silent and stared at her.

"I'm going to say this once and only once, so open your ears and use that wee head of yours while you still have a brain in it. Do you understand what I'm saying? Nod your head." The man jerked his head in a nod. "Good, now I'm going in for a bite, when I come back out I don't want a single scratch on this SUV. You are going to sit here and watch it. I might be ten minutes, I might be an hour, but if I come out and your gone or worse the vehicle's damaged I'm going to come looking for you and I will find you. Nod your head again like you understand. Good. Now sit here like a good lad and don't try to rob anyone else." Morrigan holstered her pistol and walked into the diner.

The door opened and tinkled a small bell signalling her arrival. It smelled of freshly cooked food, most noticeably grilled meat. Morrigan walked across red and white tiled floor and took a seat at a side table near the back in a corner. That was another habit that she had adopted after becoming a merc. She always felt the need to have her back to a wall and keep a look out for anyone else. The diner was packed and alive with conversation, apparently gunshots were a very common sound in Roanupur and people didn't get too worried when they heard them. Then again most of them were probably packing anyways. The table she sat at must not have been very popular, because there was no one at it. Strange considering that the restaurant was so full.

Morrigan sat down and picked up one of the menus. She was still peering into it deciding what to get when she was interrupted.

"Excuse me ma'am, but can we sit with you? The Restaurant's full and you have room at your table." said a man politely.

"I don't mind," said Morrigan still holding the menu in front of her face. That voice sounded familiar, but she couldn't quite place it. With a scrape of chairs, the two other people sat down across from her. Time to be sociable, thought Morrigan. She put down the menu and instantly her day got worse. Across from her were the two members of the Lagoon company she was most acquainted with. They stared at each other for a moment. "Are you bloody kidding me?" exclaimed Morrigan.

"I didn't know they served leprechauns here," said Revy.

"Up yours ya bitch," said Morrigan flipping her off.

"What did you fucking say!" said Revy angrily.

"I told you to take it up your arse like you do every night ya bleedin slut." retorted Morrigan.

"I already fucked you up once, you want another experience?" threatened Revy.

"Just try it," goaded Morrigan. Revy began reaching for her cutlass and Morrigan put her hand on her Browning.

"Um you guys are making a scene," said Rock. Indeed many of the restaurant's patrons were looking over at them and the growing racket. Morrigan sat back in a huff and crossed her arms.

"Well I'm not moving and I was here first so you lot can just bugger off." said Morrigan irritably.

"Who died and made you queen? I'm not moving so you can just suck it up princess." said Revy angrily.

"Listen, we can just get along and have a pleasant meal. I know that we've had a rough start, but if we're going to be working in the same town we at least have to be polite to each other. I know you're not an unreasonable person Morrigan, so how about we start fresh." said Rock diplomatically.

"Kiss ass," said Revy, Morrigan sighed.

"I guess, just don't expect me to be a conversationalist."

"Well it's a start at least, as long as we don't start shooting this could be a very nice meal." said Rock hopefully. Revy and Morrigan looked at him like he was stupid.

They ordered and ate in silence for a good portion of the meal, the only sound being the scrape of cutlery on plates as they ate. Morrigan was just hoping that they could just make it through the meal without having to talk, but knowing Rock he would probably bring make her talk with him. Surprisingly, it was Revy who started it.

"So you're boss, he's seeing Eda huh?" asked Revy picking at her food.

"He's not my boss, he's my employer," said Morrigan also picking at her food. She didn't like Eda, and bringing her up always annoyed her.

"Whatever, is she or not?"

"Yeah he is, she's a real slut too," said Morrigan spitefully.

"Really?" said Revy perking up at the gossip. "Well what does she do?" Morrigan had realized with mild surprise that she had just insinuated that Eda and Artyom were screwing. Well time to do some damage, thought Morrigan viciously. Because seriously, fuck Eda.

"Oh yeah love, she's a real nympho. You know that nuns outfit she always wears?"

"Yeah."

"Well," continued Morrigan. "You didn't hear this for me, but whenever they go out for a date she brings it along and when they get back they role play." Revy burst out laughing.

"You have got to be kidding me, Eda plays the bad nun and rides British boy as he confesses?"

"No," said Morrigan shaking her head. "She leans over Artyom's desk and takes it up the ass pretending he's a priest."

"No way," said Revy trying to stop herself from laughing. "She actually does that?"

"Yeah, you can hear them on the hangar floor. Oh father take away my sins, uh, uh, uh." said Morrigan mimicking the imaginary procreation. "She just lifts up her little dress and they go at it." Revy laughed so hard she cried.

"That's the funniest fucking thing I've heard all week. Eda's not going to live this down the next time I see her." said Revy wiping a tear from her eye. "Always knew she was a slut."

"That's not even the half of it," said Morrigan grinning slyly. "You should hear what they do at night.

"Holy shit are you saying that they do that when people are around?"

"Oh yeah, they go at it like rabbits any chance they get."

"Should you really be talking about someone behind their backs like that? I mean, it's private right?" said Rock.

"Rock be quiet, this is just getting good," said Revy listening intently. For the rest of the meal, Morrigan and Revy bonded over one thing that has brought women together for centuries, gossip. Morrigan used her imagination to make up the most kinky sex acts she could think of and still be believable. While Revy laughed her ass off and kept asking questions that Morrigan made up answers to. After they grew tired of talking about Eda and Artyom they switched to other topics. They talked about all manner of things, from guns to Oprah Winfrey ignoring Rock in their conversation.

"So what about that big bastard you guys have working for you? I'd like another crack at him, I haven't had someone come that close to killing me in a long time." Revy grinned like a shark. "You know, I've just been itching for another go with him."

"Well you might get your chance, he still hates you."

"I understand not liking me, but hating me? What did I do to him?" asked Revy perplexed.

"Well it's not what you did to him, it's what you did to Angelika. When you scared her that day, you absolutely terrified her and Beznik was livid." said Morrigan.

"So what, is he screwing her or something or why is he so mad?"

"No, no," said Morrigan shaking her head. "She's kind of like his adopted kid you know? So basically you threatened his only family and he's not taking it well. If I was you though, I really wouldn't want to tangle with him that much, there's something... different about him."

"What do you mean different? He some kind of freak show or something like that?"

"No, it's just that I don't think fighting or death scare him. I asked him once if he felt bad at all about killing people or had regrets about being in the military, and do you know what he said? Why should I, to me that's right weird. When he fights it's like he actually enjoys it, likes the killing. Not only that, but I think that if he wanted you dead there would be no way stop him short of utterly destroying him."

"So in other words my kind of guy," said Revy imagining the fight.

"Well I thought that your kind of guy was the timid little suit over there," said Morrigan pointing at Rock.

"He's not my guy!" said Revy hotly, "and at least that's better than the fucking cripple that you go after."

"Artyom's not a cripple!" said Morrigan. "And for your information, he's taken."

"Yeah I know, by Eda. So you can't even get yourself a cripple huh, must be rough."

"Fuck you," said Morrigan, Revy just laughed.

"Um Revy, we're supposed to go to the Rip Off Church for Dutch remember? If we're late, we might not pick up our stuff on time and get fined extra money." said Rock pointing to his watch.

"Oh shit, are we late already?"

"No, but if we don't leave soon we're not going to make it in time."

"Well at least I get to bug that slut when we get there. I still can't believe that she did half of that shit. Well Rock pay for our grub and we've got to get going." said Revy standing up.

"Well, I didn't bring my wallet with me." said Rock.

"Are you serious?" asked Revy clearly annoyed. "You didn't bring your wallet with you?"

"Well... I didn't think I'd need it." Revy sighed.

"Well I guess I'm going to have to pay for it you freeloader," said Revy pulling out her wallet. Her face fell when she looked into it and found it empty. Revy and Rock both looked at Morrigan.

"No," said Morrigan flatly. "Hell no."

"Don't be such a tight assed bitch," said Revy. "I mean we got along so help us out here."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean that I'm paying for your bloody food you parasite, I'm not you're personal ATM that you can just call upon whenever you want."

"Come on you fucking leprechaun just pay the bill."

"Don't call a fucking leprechaun! Just because I'm Irish doesn't means I have a goddamned pot of gold hidden up my arse!" fumed Morrigan.

"Well I guess that's all I can really expect from a mick anyways, getting them to give up money is like trying to get blood from a stone. You can try, but in the end you're not getting any." said Revy in a mocking analytic tone.

"That's real funny love, well we'll see how bloody funny you are when you're late because you couldn't pay for your food."

"Well I hope they spit in you're food." said Revy.

"Come to think of it, why are you here anyways?" asked Rock.

"What do you mean?" asked Morrigan.

"Well, I know that you get free food at your main office so why would you come down here?"continued Rock.

"I was late getting to lunch, and it's none of your business."

"But why were you late? Surely you wouldn't be that late unless there was something wrong."

"Shut the hell up," warned Morrigan.

"Could it be that something's bothering you and that's why you were late so you decided to come into town to eat? That would also explain why there's a scared gang member sitting outside watching your car and a bullet groove in the pavement. So if we can't pay for our meal, I guess that we will just have to sit here and discuss this a little more," said Rock conversationally. "Could this also have something to do with your boss seeing Eda?"

"This has nothing to do with Artyom seeing that skank," said Morrigan venemously.

"Then there shouldn't be a problem with us talking about it should there?" said Rock still polite as ever.

Morrigan slammed some some bills down onto the table with a little too much force, betraying her anger.

"Here's your bleeding money, now piss off."

"Thank you Morrigan for helping us out, we really appreciate it," said Rock scooping up the money off of the table.

"Yeah whatever," said Morrigan. "Just be sure to ask that nun about her rutting and it will be more than worth it."

"Will do leprechaun," said Revy heading out of the restaurant.

"I'm not a goddamned Leprechaun," called Morrigan after Revy sourly. Why did everyone keep calling her one? She swore that the next person who called her one of the wee men was getting cold cocked.

Rock paid for their meal and soon followed after Revy, waving goodbye to Morrigan. Morrigan leaned back and stared at the ceiling deep in thought about Rock. How could he keep doing that? It just wasn't natural.

Rock was really starting to get on her nerves, he pretended to be a mild mannered pencil pusher, but the reality was actually quite different. How the hell had Rock been able to put it all together like that? So many little details he had either guessed or picked up on. She had picked up her casing outside and there was no way that he knew that the SUV was hers. Also there were plenty of bullet grooves in the sidewalk and even holes in the buildings, so how had he known? He shouldn't have been able to piece so many random facts together, shouldn't have been able to get inside of her head like that, but yet again he had played her like a fiddle and gotten what he wanted. Found her most vulnerable part and pried it apart. Had he just been guessing, or had he seen inside of her? Maybe she had been too defensive talking about Artyom, and maybe she had given something away. All Rock had done when she had been talking with Revy was eating his meal and listening. It wasn't really much of a victory for him, only a free meal, but the fact that he had been able to get her to do what he wanted again was unnerving. She had learned a long time ago that the most dangerous of men weren't those who could wield a gun and kill anyone they chose to, it was those who could get others to do it for them. Those who could make others dance like marionettes to their wills and not even realize it. Jacques was a man like that, but he was too dependant on drugs to really strike out on his own, too unreliable. When he wasn't high he could work wonders, but get him after six in the evening and he was in his own little world.

Artyom couldn't see it, but there was a coldness to Jacques that permeated out from him, and the stench of death. It was faint, but it was there hidden by the clean clothes and well mannered attitude, but it was there.

"Hey bitch!" Morrigan internally groaned. Why did she keep having to put up with shit like this? "Look at me when I fucking talk to you cunt!" continued an angry man. Morrigan looked up and saw an angry blonde Italian man with some thugs around him.

"You need something?" asked Morrigan mocking his anger.

"You're at my table you stupid bitch." he continued ranting.

"I don't see your name on it laddie," said Morrigan gesturing to the table.

"This is my table, it is reserved for me at all times. Do you have any idea who I am, what I could do to you?"

"I don't really care, but I have a feeling that you're going to tell me anyways." said Morrigan in a disinterested tone. People were getting up and leaving the restaurant casting furtive looks at the exchange taking place.

"I'm Don Verrocchio, and I run this fucking city from top to bottom, that interest you enough?" Morrigan's eyes widened in surprise, that could be a problem. "Yeah, now you're fucking wishing that you hadn't fucking mouthed off huh?"

"Listen," said Morrigan in a placating tone. "All I did was come in here for a bite and it was full. I saw an empty table and sat down. If I would have known it belonged to you I wouldn't have sat down at it. I'm sorry that I took your table and I'm sorry that I mouthed off, I didn't mean to disrespect you." Morrigan knew what the Mafia was capable of and unless she wanted to spend the rest of her time in Roanupur strictly inside the wire at Cossack Support, she had to make peace.

"So now you're sorry huh? Fell real bad about mouthing off to me do ya? Well guess what, it's too late for your fucking sorry." said Verrocchio in a loud voice. It was obvious that he was used to getting what he wanted and this was no different to him.

"Listen, just tell me what I need to do to make up for this and I'll do it. I work for a transport company, maybe we can work out a deal. I don't want trouble with you and like I said, I'm sorry for mouthing you off, you didn't deserve that." said Morrigan eyeing the mafioso's that were surrounding her with growing apprehension.

"You want to work something out?" said Verrocchio as if contemplating her attempts at peace. "Well I suppose I am a fair and reasonable man so that shouldn't be a problem. In fact if you want to make up for it I have the perfect idea for how you can do just that."

"Just tell me what to do sir, this is just a misunderstanding and I would like to put it behind us," said Morrigan professionally.

"Did you hear that?" asked Verrocchio laughing. "The little bitch called me sir, I guess that she's catching on quick." Morrigan felt a flame of anger spark in her. She would only push the diplomacy envelope so far, if this asshole decided to keep insulting her like this, he would get what was coming to him.

"Just tell me what you want me to do," said Morrigan keeping her voice level.

"What I want you to do? Hmmm. Well I guess a blow job would do it." said Verrocchio deciding on a form of repayment.

"What?" asked Morrigan in shock.

"You heard me, I want you to get down on you knees, unzip my pants, and blow me. Bob your head like a good little girl until I cum. If you do a really good job, I might even give you a pat on the head and let you swallow." A couple of his goons laughed and Morrigan was fucking done with his shit.

"Take your friends out back and fuck them up the arse if you want some action you fucking queer," seethed Morrigan. The smile left Verrochio's face in an instant.

"You stupid bitch! I try and be nice and this is the shit I get in return? Well let's see how much fight you've got in you at the bottom of the harbour." Before anyone could make a move, the bell at the front of the store tinkled signalling the arrival of a new customer into a coming shitstorm. Although the universe must have wanted to make it a hurricane, because Revy was the one who entered the resturant.

"I can't believe I forgot my goddamned-" Revy stopped mid-sentence. She saw Don Verrocchio, leader of the Italian Mafia in Roanupur, several of his goons and a very outnumbered Morrigan. "What's going on here Verrocchio?" asked Revy cautiously.

"This isn't any of your fucking business Two Hands, stay out of it." warned Verrocchio.

"I never said I gave a shit, I just forgot my wallet on that dumb bitches table you stupid wop," said Revy.

"You bitch!" said Verrocchio reaching for his gun. Revy thrummed a finger on her Cutlass.

"You sure that's a good idea macaroni boy?" taunted Revy. In Roanupur she was legendary for her gun fighting abilites and Verrocchio even if he was angry about it that they couldn't take her in a straight up fight. He looked down at the table and saw the wallet. He picked it up and tossed it to Revy. When everyone's eyes were on the wallet, Morrigan made her move.

She sprang up from the table and made a beeline for the front door, pulling her browning and firing as she did so. She winged one of the mobsters and he fell backwards, while the rest took cover.

"Come on!" shouted Morrigan bursting out from the front entrance of the restaurant.

"What? No! I am not involved in this shit." said Revy as she caught her wallet and ran from the restaurant into the bright sunlight of Roanupur midday sun. The bullets shattering the front windows of the building said otherwise.

"What's going on?" asked Rock sitting in the drivers seat of the idling car.

"Just Drive!" commanded Revy as she entered the passengers side, and Morrigan literally dove into the backseat of the car through an open window.

"Get that fucking cunt!" shouted a very angry Italian crime boss. A flurry of shots followed the car as it sped off with a screeching of tires, Morrigans legs still hanging out the window. The car took a sharp turn and Morrigan fell the rest of the way into the car, landing half on the seat and half in the foot area.

"Why the hell did you drag us into this?" demanded Revy as the car sped through Roanupur and a trio of cars sped into view after a few moments.

"I was going to get shot!" defended Morrigan readying her gun and going to the drivers side of the car. It took another sharp turn and unsettled Morrigan, the force pulling her to the other side of the car, but she hung onto the door frame and stayed where she was.

"So what? You didn't need to get us involved in this, now we're going to be late and get charged extra you idiot!"

"I bought you dinner," said Morrigan as the cars gained further on them.

"Yeah, but I doubt that getting chased by a bunch of mobsters in worth thirty lousy fucking dollars." shot back Revy pulling out one of her custom Beretta's. "We should just dump your ass out and save us the trouble."

"I can pay you," said Morrigan desperately.

"How much?" asked Revy interested.

"Five grand," said Morrigan shooting a couple of rounds out of the car at a pursuing one.

"I'm sorry, but that's not going to cut it," said Revy shaking her head. "Rock pull over."

"Twenty!" said Morrigan desperately. "Just get me back to Cossack's hangar and you'll get your money!"

"Now we're talking," said Revy happily. "Floor it Rock, we've got a leprechaun to save and a pot of gold to get."

"DON'T CALL ME A FUCKING LEPRECHAUN!" raged Morrigan taking out her anger on the pursuing cars, pumping out round after round. She was answered in kind and rounds broke through the rear window of the car and showered the backseat with glass. Revy added her own firepower to the fray as the car turned sharply towards the docks. The car became airborne as it came to the top of the hill leading towards the harbour and it flew for a few moments before hitting the ground and bouncing. It roared with power as it raced towards its target regaining the speed it had lost with its American built engine. The pursing cars followed close behind, but scraped on the ground as they landed, having lower suspension than the Lagoons vehicle.

The air pulled at Morrigan's arm as she tried to line up shots as the car sped down the throughway. She kept firing, then watched as one of the cars received a crack in the windshield and veered off to the side crashing into a building. Morrigan looked over at Revy and saw her in what could only be described as a snarl of pure bloodlust as she took out another car. How could she do that? They were going damn near two hundred kilometres an hour and she was taking them out, like they were pop up targets at a range.

The last car veered in and out of traffic proving harder to hit. They reached the bottom of the hill, and sped in the direction of Cossack Support, the compound becoming larger with every passing moment. Morrigan ducked down as more rounds entered the cab of the car, whistling over her. She felt her adrenaline go up at the near misses, and couldn't help but grin. A French general had once said that if war were not so terrible, man would love it too much. The man had forgot to add in woman, as Morrigan couldn't help but grin at the fight as she slammed her last clip home and continued firing at the pursuing car.

The guards at the gate of Cossack Support jumped out of the way, as the Lagoon Car slammed through the little arm barring the entrance and screeched to a halt in the centre of the compound. Armed guards in varying stages of battle dress poured out of the nearby buildings, wielding everything from pistols to squad carried light machine guns. Some had body armour and fatigues, while others were in no more than muscle shirts and BDU pants, or civilian clothes. Morrigan got out and showed them that it was her before they peppered the car with automatic weapons fire like they had been trained to do.

"It's alright lads, it's just me." she called to the assembled mercs. They kept their weapons levelled none the less, they were wary for tricks as Beznik had taught hem. Beznik was out with them, an AK variant in his hands and pointing rock steady at Rock who was the driver of the car. The car that was pursuing them clunked to a halt a short ways from them. Verrocchio got out and slammed the door shut behind him. If he had been mad at the restaurant, then he was absolutely pissed now.

"You Fucking cunt! I"m going to rip your head off and shit down your throat! When I'm done with you, you'll beg for death!" he had a pistol held in a tight fist by his side. His guards with him were eyeing the scene nervously. Their back up for the Don had been wiped out, and there was over sixty armed mercs in front of them. As well as the four who were blocking the gate behind them with rifles levelled.

"Um boss," began one of Verrocchios subordinates nervously.

"Shut up!" he yelled, seemingly oblivious to the danger surrounding him. "That bitch is dying!"

"I don't think so," said a very calm Artyom as he walked towards Verrocchio, cane in hand. Jacques was behind him, as well as two mercs in full combat dress and Geoffrey with his heavy .45 in hand.

"Who the fuck are you?" demanded Verrocchio.

"First of all, shut the fuck up or I will have my men kill you," said Artyom matter of fact. "Second of all, this is my place of business that you came into waving a gun around in. Thirdly, I am a goddamned merc company leader and I will be damned if some little bitch of a mafioso is going to be coming in here and threatening my personal fucking bodyguard."

"You don't know-"

"Who I'm talking to?" cut in Artyom. "I'm talking to some self important Sicilian Mafia Don who thinks he can throw his weight around in a city, where he's a second rate crime lord." Verrocchio gritted him teeth in rage.

"Now get back and your car and leave or I will kill you myself," said Artyom drawing him pernach. "Now." It seemed for a moment that Verrocchio was going to try and shoot Artyom, before his better judgement got a hold of him.

"We're getting the hell out of here, the bitch isn't worth our time," said Verrocchio getting back into his car. His bodyguards quickly followed him inside and they clunked off in their damaged car tracked by several dozen weapons. After they left, Artyom addressed the rest of the assembled mercs.

"Shows over guys, go back to whatever you were doing. The mercs slowly drifted back to their previous preoccupations, while a few went to go and reinforce the gate guard. "Beznik, that means you too," said Artyom. Beznik still had his rifle trained steady, but on Revy this time. "Beznik, you can go now." said Artyom. Beznik didn't move, and Revy was meeting his dead eyes with her own. "Beznik I gave you an order soldier, now go." said Artyom adopting a more serious tone. Slowly Beznik lowered his rifle and disappeared into the crowd of retreating mercs. Even with his distinctive size, he was soon indistinguishable from the others.

Morrigan turned to Rock who had gotten out of the car and was leaning against it. "Thanks for helping me out there mate," said Morrigan.

"Well I didn't really do much," said Rock.

"Are you kidding?" said Morrigan. "That was some bloody impressive driving."

"I guess it was huh?" said Rock sheepishly. Morrigan eyed Artyom walking over towards them.

"In fact, I think I should give you a little reward," said Morrigan coyly.

"What? But you're already mphh." Rock was cut off as Morrigan pushed him into the car and kissed him. She pushed her breasts into his chest and held him there for a moment until she finished the kiss completely dominating it and released him. He was blushing like mad, and had a very surprised look on his face.

"Hey you horny bitch, just cause you can't get a man doesn't mean you should just fuck anyone you see," said Revy annoyed, if not angry.

"I was just thanking the man," said Morrigan shrugging. "Jealous?" asked Morrigan.

"You fucking wish," said Revy dismissing her.

"What was that?" asked Artyom walking up.

"Jealous love," asked Morrigan smirking.

"Not really," said Artyom. Morrigan made an annoyed little hmpff and the smirk left her face. "By the way, why are Lagoon here anyways?" asked Artyom.

"Because love, they saved my ass. Speaking of which, we need to go pick up the SUV and you owe them money."

"Well okay, but-WHAT?" exclaimed Artyom.

"Yeah, you owe them twenty grand," said Morrigan. Jacques groaned.

"Plus damages to the car," cut in Revy. Jacques groaned louder this time.

"Well let me get my check book," said Artyom in exasperation. Why was it everytime he dealt with Lagoon it ended up costing him money? More shit was happening in Roanupur than in fucking Liberia. Fuck BTR's, he was buying BMP's if this shit kept up. Artyom sighed, hell he would probably need to get an army if this kept up.

AN: Well that was a pretty good chapter if I do say so myself. Some of the dialogue might have been a little clunky in places, but overall I'm happy with it. Also this will be the last time I update for a while as I will be leaving on the second and working for most of the summer. So my regards, and keep reviewing please. At least another ten chapters to go on this story, but probably more. Thanks for reading and enjoy summer break.


	11. Chapter 11 Philippine Frenzy

**Chapter 11 Philippine Frenzy**

"We're being followed," said Revy matter of fact. They had been contracted by Chang to deliver a package to some officials from the United States government. The job had come after an attack on the US embassy and Changs offices, by the same terrorist organization that the documents were about. They had been discussing the terms of agreement and payment for the delivery when the terrorist sect had attacked. They were a group called Protectors of the Islamic Front and had shown their willingness to die for their cause, for die they did.

They had been down in the Black Lagoon town office at the time and nearly taken out by a well aimed RPG round through their window. Amazingly no one had been killed in the blast, though Benny still claimed his ears rang from time to time. The ensuing firefight had been a massacre for the 'freedom fighters' having to face not only Two Hands Revy, but also the leader of the triads in Roanupur Chang, the only man or gunslinger for that matter able to meet and exceed Revy's near super human skill with hand guns. The blood of the masked gunmen had still been soaking through the cheap wooden flooring as the Lagoon crew had made good their escape.

They were in the Phillipine sea, near their drop off point when the first boats had appeared. They weren't overly close to them keeping their distance, but definitely following them. No pleasure cruiser would follow them for so long in an old military surplus boat, nor would they be with friends with an exact same model of boat moving in formation behind them. It could have been a family fishing group, but no fisherman would have gone so long without casting their lines to haul in a catch, plus it was night. It was a time when a fisherman would have been sorting through their catch and preparing for tomorrows haul. Their intent was obvious, the only question was what to do about it.

"I know, they've been following us for a while now. I just wasn't entirely sure that they were following us or not. Switching boats every few miles, pretty smart," said Dutch approvingly. "But all were military surplus and all of them followed us like they were tethered to the back of our ship. Good, but still amateurs."

"So then what the hell do we plan on doing about it?" demanded Revy, her hands twitching as if wanting to draw her cutlasses her plan plain for all to see. Revy was simple in her methods, but had shown moments of guile and planning before, but those times were few and far between.

"I don't want to get into an open fight out here and risk bringing out the Philippine coast guard or American forces," said Dutch considering his words. His brow was creased in deep though as he piloted the Black Lagoon PT 109 model torpedo boat through the Phillipine sea like it was merely an extension of himself and not a piece of military hardware. "The way that I see it is that you and Rock will take one of the dinghies to shore while we draw our friends back there on a scenic tour of the Philippine islands."

One of the said dinghies on the Black Lagoon ship had had to be replaced after being 'borrowed' by Morrigan during the Brunhilda escapade and never returned, but having to be paid for in full by Cossack Support. The thought of that still brought a smile to Dutch's face when he thought about it, though his neighbours home was starting to more resemble a military base than the dockyard it had been, even their aviation front having been moved to the Roanupur airport. The air traffic had been increasing as of late over Roanupur, a clear a sign of anything of the growing aviation company as well as their little side business flying in drugs was doing quite well. It wasn't just pale tourists in brightly coloured shirts in those planes.

"That means I've got Rock with me right?" asked Revy not showing a trace of annoyance at the prospect, obviously on better terms with the mild mannered business man. Perhaps even accepting him into their little family. Dutch nodded an affirmative.

"He's the delivery boy, you just have to make sure he makes it to where he has to go without him getting killed." Revy chuckled darkly at Dutch's words.

"It would be easier if the little pansy would actually carry a gun," said Revy, distaste in her words but a faraway look in her eyes as she said it.

"It would," conceded Dutch. "But I think Rock is better off without one. He's the kind of guy who would hesitate if he had to pull the trigger and you know how long people like that last in our line of work."

"Not fucking long," muttered Revy having seen too many of her past acquaintances make that very same mistake as well as some of her rivals she had put in the ground. It happened to everyone at one point or another. The point where they realized that they had to kill someone they never thought they would have to, or were doing it for the first time. There was always that hesitation, that last moment of wondering if they were really ready to cross that line, only to realize too late that the other person was all too willing to cross that line first.

"Plus they're less likely to shoot at him without a gun," said Dutch a smile breaking free on his face. "Since you'll be drawing all the fire he'll be just fine."

"Screw you Dutch," said Revy in her usual aggressive tone, but no real anger behind her words.

"Remember to contact us when you're done so we can come pick you up," said Dutch switching back to business. "We should have dealt with our friends by then and sent them to go and have a nice little chat with Davy Jones. We've got an unofficial agreement with the US navy in the area, they're allowing us a 48 hour grace period to loiter offshore for you. They won't bother us as long as we don't cause much of a problem."

"Wouldn't blowing a couple of boats out of the water count as causing a problem?" questioned Revy.

"Well what they don't know won't hurt them, and you need to start getting ready. We're coming up on a little clutch of islands that you should be able to slip away through. We'll wait until they can't see us and drop you off, before they notice anythings amiss."

"Well I guess I'll be seeing you later then Dutch," said Revy departing the bridge of the small ship to go and get Rock for their delivery run.

They left the Lagoon as they rounded one of the innumerable islands in the Philippine archipelago coming free from the black lagoon, like a leaf from a tree in the fall caught by the wind. They slipped away silently, cutting through the dark waters smoothly like one of the many sharks that inhabited the islands waters. They cut their engine as they drifted until they had seen the boats tailing the Lagoon sail on past, following the torpedo boat like a hound smelling blood. The little outboard motor on the dinghy proved more than adequate to get them through the waters and safely berthed on shore.

They hid the dinghy in a clump of trees putting boughs and foliage on top to disguise it from view. This was a less travelled region of the island, but the communist guerrillas did patrol this close to the American side of the DMZ and discovery could lead to them being hunted making their job much harder than it had to be. It wasn't like they would ever be coming back for the little boat anyways, so it didn't really matter what happened to it so long as it wasn't found within the next few days.

The night air was damp, but still warm as they trekked through the jungle. The night sounds of the jungle foreign, but reassuring. To someone who knew what to listen for, the sounds of the jungle were as telling as any piece of equipment. The night calls of the animals and the occasional death cry all comfortable background noises that as long as it kept up they knew they were in relative safety, poisonous snakes aside. If the background noises subsided, then they would know that a predator was near. Not one with fangs and claws that stalked on four legs, but one that stood erect and had a weapon of wood and steel. For when the most lethal predators of all came out, all was silent.

Rock was ill dressed for travelling through the jungle, more dressed for the office, but he was managing all the same. Revy by most standards was not much better dressed, but she seemed able to better navigate the dense jungle picking her way through as if she could see the quietest and quickest path to take, her footfalls near silent on the dense undergrowth. Rock by comparison was like a drunk elephant crashing through the jungle, breaking twigs, pushing through branches, and generally making far too much noise. Eventually even Revy's general acceptance of Rock could not outweigh their need for survival.

"You need to quit making so much fucking noise!" said Revy in a harsh whisper, turning on Rock after a particularly loud stumble through the undergrowth.

"I'm trying to be quiet, but I can't see a thing out here," defended Rock holding the metal briefcase closely to his chest. "I never did much hiking back in Japan, and especially not at night."

"Well you better start learning real goddamned fast if you don't want someone to find us and put a bullet in your clumsy ass."

"Okay okay I'll try," said Rock in a placating tone. "I'm just not a real outdoors kind of guy."

"Whatever," said Revy starting to head further back up the trail only to stop suddenly and cock her ear. "Hear that?" she asked in low tones. Rock cocked his own ear and listened.

"No I don't hear anything."

"Exactly, get in the trees now and don't make any noise whatsoever."

"But what's-"

"Just do it," said Revy manhandling Rock into the trees and hiding them both in the undergrowth. They laid their unmoving for a handful long minutes that felt like hours, their breathing seeming unnaturally loud in their ears as they laid in the damp earth.

A minute passed, then another and still nothing happened, just the quiet of the jungle night lit by the stars and half moon overhead. Rock was developing a cramp in his leg and attempted to move to a more comfortable position when Revy put a cautionary hand on his shoulder to still him, her eyes fixed to the far treeline with the rapt attention and predatory instinct of any creature born to hunt another.

Rock followed her gaze to the distant treeline that had her drawn her attention. For a moment he couldn't see anything, then as if materializing out of the jungle itself a silhouette of a man appeared picking his way carefully through the jungle, soon followed by another and another. Each detaching themselves from the darkness like some kind of wraith moving with skill and purpose, AK's clutched in ready hands as they moved stealthily through the jungle. They moved in a loose file five men in all, moving through well worn trails only visible to them. They hadn't seen them yet, of that Rock was sure it unnerved him though how close they had come to being discovered. On their routine patrol these guerrillas had very nearly run into the very people so many of their fellows had died trying to get and the package that they carried with them even now. Rock held the case to his chest like it was the most precious thing in the world to him.

He glanced over at Revy, her cutlasses were in her hands held low in the brush to hide their shine, eyes focused like those of a cat stalking a bird muscles ready to spring into action in a moment.

The men seemed to be moving at a fraction of normal speed, like they were immersed in a pool of water and every movement exaggerated. Rock watched as they picked their way through the undergrowth before disappearing down another trail leading farther away from them and their destination. Rock let out a breath he hadn't known that he had been holding, but still they remained waiting another handful of minutes before Revy decided it was safe enough for them to move.

"That's why you have to learn to be fucking quiet," she hissed in a hushed tone. Rock merely nodded in acknowledgement. "You don't get second chances out here, it's a one shot deal and I don't want to drag your dead ass outta here."

They continued down the path as the sounds of the jungle resumed, Rock being far more careful as to where he placed his footfalls, checking each spot before he put his foot down. He still made far too much noise in Revy's opinion, but he was learning, if a bit slowly.

"Checkmate yet again Mr. Artyom," said Balalaika as she manoeuvred her bishop into position after having sacrificed her queen to lure him into a trap. Artyom surveyed the board before conceding defeat and toppling his king yet again.

"One day you really must tell me how you keep winning," said Artyom sipping on a glass of vodka. "I always get this close and then I lose." A smile split the scar tissue that was the right side of Balalaikas face like a fissure in the earth and she sat back cigar in hand.

"Now if I told you how I won all the time it would be much harder to win all the time, and I do like winning." They were in Balalaikas large office, playing at a low table surrounded by a few plush chairs, a bottle of vodka, and an ashtray for Balalaikas cigars. Artyom had smoked at one time, smoked wherever he went in fact. His presence always proceeded by the smell of rolled tobacco. He had even smoked by the hind during refuelling and very nearly causing an explosion. He had still smoked after that, unperturbed by the near annihilation of both himself and the refuelling crew. They however hadn't taken it so lightly.

Artyom had been jumped the one night after a night of drinks and tied to a chair atop a stack of fuel drums, a lit Cuban cigar in his mouth. He had stayed that way all night, fearful that the flaming ash might fall into one of the open fuel drums and kill him in a fiery explosion. The morning maintenance crew had found him, the stub of the cigar clutched between his teeth and ash decorating the front of his flight suit like it had been smeared with chalk. He had been cut free of his restraints weary with fatigue and fear. Needless to say he never touched a cigarette or cigar again during his time in or after Afghanistan. He sometimes wondered why such bizarre and life threatening situations happened to him. He sometimes wondered if something in the cosmic universe found it funny or if he was just unlucky.

"I guess it would, but I just don't understand how it is you win all the time." prodded Artyom trying to get an answer after nearly nine years. In that nine years he had acquired a winning percentage of 0% and it didn't seem like it would start picking up again any time soon.

"I win," said Balalaika putting out the stub of her cigar, "because I simply won't accept anything else other than winning."

"No prizes for second place then? You must have been quite the competitor at school sports huh?" Another smile split Balalaikas face, one half the face of a beautiful woman who could have men tripping over themselves to earn themselves her attention. The other the face of a vicious crime lord and battle scarred veteran. Two sides of the same coin, both for all the world to see.

"I won every event." she wasn't bragging when she said it, she was merely stating the facts. She had been exceptional at sports, in the military, in life. She had excelled in inspiring untold depths of loyalty, and now she had a reputation as a completely ruthless crime lord who was cold and calculating, but very successful. Her men would fight for her, die for her on a whim and unlike her competitors her men wouldn't break their oath of loyalty so easily.

"Well I guess I was just the you did your best kind of guy, want to play another game?" Artyom had usually got the equivalent of thanks for trying ribbons when he played sports. Even before his injury he had hated having to play sports, because he liked to win, but usually got beat. In the air though, no one could touch him in skill or expertise. He knew helicopters inside and out and had yet to meet anyone who could out fly him.

"In a moment," said Balalaika the smile long since having departed her face almost like it was a foreign and unwelcome thing. "I would more like to discuss your recent dealings with Chang."

"Ughh, do we have to talk business now? I get enough of that with Jacques at work. Can't we just enjoy the evening and reminisce about the times when we could take over the world single handed with an Kalashnikov in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other?"

"As much as I would like to I am afraid that this matter has caused me some concern." She pursed her lips as if in distaste and fixed him with a piercing sapphire eye.

"How so?"

"You have been moving product, a lot of product for the triads and it has been making Chang a rather tidy some of money. This has, tipped the precarious balance that we have established if even ever so slightly."

"It's been making me a lot of money too Balalaika, a boatload of money. Not only in the other half of my business, but the legitimate side is expanding. We're setting up tourist flights from here to Australia. That in itself costs a lot of money. I need to pay construction fees for new runways and facilities. Do you know how much it costs to cut a runway out of a jungle, because I do and it's a fucking lot of money. I need new planes, pilots, insurance, fuel, parts, and I need the money that I'm making from these shipments to cover it all."

"That's not the only cause of concern," said Balalaika lighting another cigar with a match and a puff of smoke.

"What else is there?"

"You're supplying him with soldiers, well armed and military trained soldiers. That gives him a lot more push when it comes to making deals." Artyom chuckled humorlessly at Balalaikas words.

"I run a mercenary company Balalaika, or course I give him men. He pays me for protection for meets and deals so I supply the firepower to back up his money. I am first and foremost a business man and a mercenary, everything else second. You think I survived in Africa by picking sides? No. I survived by going to whoever had the most money and best chance of winning. I would hit a government convoy one day and a guerrilla camp the next. I'm for sale Balalaika, my services are always available to those who can pay."

"Even against those who once called you comrade? Remember to who you answer to Artyom, I saved your life, because you were my ally. You returned the favour for the same reason, don't you forget that. I own you Artyom and if I say not to work with someone then you won't." Artyom put down his drink, a look of irritation crossing his features.

"Why does business always ruin good vodka? I will say this one more time Balalaika, you don't own me. I have just as much money and firepower as any other leader of this city and I will not bend knee to you simply because you demand it. I owe you my life yes, but do not forget that I owed it in the first place because I gave you the chance to do so. I attacked when the rules of engagement said to withdraw, because you were my comrade and I would not leave you to die. I lost a friend that day that still pains me every day to know he died, because I made the decision to go in. I am not that lost pilot that you saved in that hospital in Afghanistan anymore, nor are you that captain who saved him. We are different people now Balalaika, but that does not mean we have to be enemies. We can still work together, but as equals. Not as soldier and commander."

"So you have said your piece then? You are saying that I have no say over what you do, even though you reside in my part of the city? You cannot simply walk into Roanupur and expect to take a piece of the pie without paying the cook his dues."

"I already have Balalaika," said Artyom rising from his chair and collecting his cane. I completely own the airport, the deed was purchased this morning in city hall. Amazing what a few well placed bribes and inconvenient photos of a man and another woman can do. I also own an additional two boatyards at the harbour, under other company names of course, but they are mine. The airport had belonged to the Colombians to bring in their coke, now it is mine and they will have to pay a fee to get it out without a fuss. The harbour brings in my weapons and equipment, without having to be searched by government officials and the ones who do are well paid to look away. I already have my piece of the pie Balalaika and I like it. I like it a lot, so don't spit in it for me." Balalaika eyed him coolly for a moment, before a light chuckle began to build until it broke into a full throat-ed laugh.

"So you think you can go head to head with me Artyom? Play your little game with those who wrote the rules? Well I've never been one to let the other take the first move," said Balalaika revealing a makarov holstered at her side beneath the fold of her business top. "And you don't have a piece to play do you?" With a snap, the clasps holding the blade of the cane in came free and revealed the first two inches of German forged steel. Balalaika seemed amused at that, though Artyom's insides were churning as if someone had put his stomach on a spin cycle. He couldn't beat Balalaika in a fight like this, even if he had been the one with the gun. He was very nervous and slightly fearful, but his hands didn't shake, they never shook. The blade gleamed brightly in the light, maliciously eyeing Balalaika with evil intent.

"I see you're learning, if albeit slowly." Balalaika said as if amused. "Very well Artyom, I'll let you keep your little business, just don't step on my toes too much and we'll get along just fine. But if you get in my way," said Balalaika taking in a long drag and exhaling it slowly. "I'll crush you." The cigar became a crumpled mass of tobacco and paper as she crushed it in her fist.

"Good to see that we understand each other. I hope that when I see you again Balalaika I won't be pointing a gun at you."

"Oh don't worry Artyom, you won't be. In fact, if it comes to that you won't even see me at all."

Artyom left the well furnished room and exited the double doors at the far end, cane tapping as he went. Morrigan was smoking a cigarette and leaning in what looked like relaxed boredom, but her sharp eyes betrayed the truth. Boris stood silently off to the side, a blank expression upon his face.

"Trouble with the misses?" asked Morrigan noting his tense demeanour and brisk walking pace.

"We had a disagreement about business and we had words about it," said Artyom not breaking stride. Morrigan flicked her cigarette into a nearby plant and followed after him.

"I'm telling you right now love, blonde women are trouble, every one of them. Best to just be done with the lot of em." Morrigan was wearing a bulletproof vest over top of a plain dark coloured t-shirt and cargo pants. It had become her unofficial uniform that she wore when acting as his bodyguard. Her ever present browning was on her hip if she ever had need of it. She handed Artyom back his Pernach, which he quickly holstered.

"Want to grab a drink? Bao's got a drinking contest on tonight, could be fun."

"I think that we should just get back to the offices as quickly as possible," said Artyom making sure his sidearm was secure glancing at the ex VDV men he passed going through Hotel Moscow.

"Expecting trouble?" asked Morrigan her hand falling near the pistol at her side, but staying off of the butt. If it came to a shootout here then they were dead no two ways about it. A pilot and a royal marine were no match for this many Russian airborne.

"Don't know yet, just keep a sharp eye out."

"Always do love, always do."

The sun rose bright and early over the Phillipines, quickly turning the day hot and humid, uncomfortable for those not used to the climate. The morning air was filled with the sounds of animals preparing for the day, and it was the time when the nocturnal predators and their prey went to sleep. Rock and Revy were just getting up, having split the watch in case the guerrillas found them, having taken shelter in an abandoned hut in the jungle for the night. They were only a ten minutes walk from the town where they were to make the trade off and then they would be done meaning they could collect their pay and leave.

"Let's get going Rock, we're burning daylight," said Revy doing a check of her Cutlasses, before twirling and holstering them. She looked eager and alert for it being so early in the morning, completely different from her usual attitude of sleeping past noon. Though on a job, it was like Revy was a different person, filled with purpose, a reason to get out of bed.

"Coming," Rock answered rubbing his sleep puffy eyes and yawning. He was in need of a cup of coffee and a cigarette, but that could wait. It was just a short walk to the village and the contact where they would be done and free to collect their pay. He felt grimy and in need of a hot shower, so the sooner they were done the better.

The walk to the village was boring compared to the nighttime trek through the jungle, but never the less they stayed off of the roads and picked their way through the jungle careful of where they placed their feet to minimize the noise they made. They made good time, the ground was covered by dead and decaying plant matter minimizing the noise they made. They were accompanied by the buzzing of insects, the chirps and caws of birds, as well as the occasional rustling of something moving through the bushes.

At first Rock had thought that there had been a gunman behind every piece of foliage, a sniper in every treetop, but as they went on and nothing happened he was put more at ease. Eventually almost even enjoying the walk through the jungle, almost.

The town when they got to it was deserted. Long empty dusty streets crisscrossed the town and would bring you to boarded up shops and businesses, all having had their blow out sale consisting of grab what you can and leave. The town was showing signs of neglect, with broken windows, fallen down signs, and dirt covered stoops all clear indicators that the human occupants were long gone.

They went to the main street looking for their contact, but like everywhere else it was empty and derelict.

"Where's the contact? I thought they were supposed to meet us here?" asked Rock a sinking feeling that the job was going to get much harder than it was supposed to be.

"Late is where they are," said Revy irritably. "They knew the time and the place and they're late. Pisses me off when people want to do business, then show up fucking late. You're supposed to do stuff like this fast, with prices agreed upon in advance so that it takes the least amount of time possible for you to either get caught or fuck up." She looked around the streets again as if their contacts would just magically appear. It almost seemed like a planned thing, because an engine came to life with a low rumble and an SUV rolled around the corner of a far street and began approaching them slowly.

"Well Rock, I think Chang's guys are here." She undid the safety straps on her armpit holsters to make drawing them faster is she needed to.

The SUV pulled up along side them and the window was rolled down to show a middle aged Japanese man with greying hair and clean shaven wearing aviator with green fatigues smiling pleasantly at them. He had an open and friendly face creased with laugh and smile lines, though he seemed too laid back to be doing a deal like this.

"You're late," said Revy curtly sizing the man up and noticed that he didn't have a gun on him as the characteristic bulge was missing. The man wasn't overly built, but he looked fit and like he could take care of himself if it came to it.

"Well Chang said to be here at nine to pick up a briefcase and it is, nine oh five so I guess I am a little late," said the man looking at his watch and smiling good naturedly at them.

"Well let's get this over with," said Revy walking up to the window. "Just say the password and we'll hand over the case and get out of your hair."

"The password?" said the man as if puzzled. He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "Oh right the password, now what was it?" He seemed to contemplate the answer as if trying to put a name to a face of a classmate from high school that he was supposed to remember. "Hmmm," he pondered aloud. "Oh yeah, now I remember." He snapped his fingers like he had just found the answer to a question that had been bothering him. "May the force be with you," he said triumphantly. "Chang really does need to get more creative with his passwords huh?" Revy was smiling, but it wasn't because of the mans joke. It was the smile she got when she knew that a fight was about to begin.

"Well asshole, you know the fake password so now I know that you're not with Chang." The smile dissolved from his face as if hit by acid, his features molding into a hard look completely at odds with his previous happy disposition.

"The password that we were supposed to use was an old Chinese proverb, but you didn't know that did you?" The man remained stonily silent for a moment as Revy drummed her fingers on her Berettas. Though he seemed strangely calm, just like the people from Roanupur.

"Well, I guess I made a mistake," said the man casually before ripping a gun from under the dashboard and ducking inside the SUV, shooting all the while.

"Shit!" exclaimed Revy diving back, firing her Beretta's. She hit the ground and slid, bullets kicking up dirt by her and her rounds tearing through glass and bodywork. She got to her feet quickly and ran to the cover of a nearby building, her legs pumping and her guns firing as fast as she could make them.

Revy slid behind the corner of the building and watched as Rock was struck from behind by the butt of a rifle from a masked gunman that had been hiding in the rear of the SUV.

"Goddamn it Rock!" said Revy in adrenaline fuelled anger. She popped off a few quick shots and was rewarded with the the gunman jerking and falling, red spreading from his newly acquired orifices to the ground. Unfortunately though a second masked gunman pulled Rock inside the SUV. With the suitcase. It took off, tires spinning, barrelling down the street kicking up dust and dirt in its mad dash for safety.

Revy reloaded and fired again at the SUV, the smell of cordite and sweat was heavy in the air as well as the faint metallic tang of blood from the dead guerrilla. The bullets missed the tires, holing the bodywork or digging grooves out of the ground. The SUV rounded the street corner and was gone before she could correct her aim. She lowered the gun in a sharp gesture, teeth gritted in frustration. Revy cursed her luck, the situation wasn't good in the slightest. She had lost Rock and now she had to get him back. "That dumb ass just had to get fucking captured didn't he?" raged Revy to herself.

This was her fault, she should have just shot the guy instead of rubbing it into his face that he had the wrong password. How many times had she learned the lesson kill when you can, because if you wait more often than not it will be your head on the pike at the end of the day if you don't?

A chunk of masonry was taken out of the building near Revy's head and she ducked back instinctively. With a roar of engines, several jeeps emerged from hiding and began advancing on her position AK's blazing as they came. Muzzle flashes winked in yellow light from the jeeps with the distinct chatter that all Kalashnikov's made. It was poor discipline, they were firing before they even had a decent bead as well as from a moving vehicle. Revy quickly abandoned her cover and took to the back alleys. They were trash lined and deserted, the noise from the engines amplified by the close walls and they seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.

Revy glanced quickly around, her Beretta's up and searching every corner in a way that would have made the instructors at Fort Bragg proud. Many people thought that Revy had military training, but the fact of the matter was that she had learned it all on the go. When you lived by the gun, you either learned quick or you ended up dead, there was no compromise for such things. A little natural talent never hurt either though, Revy had discovered that she had a natural talent for killing people and it was one of the things that she truly excelled at.

She skidded to a halt in an intersection of alleyways and found that she could either keep running in a straight line where she could get killed. Run out onto either street, and get killed. Or go back the way she had come and hope for the best, right before getting killed. She huffed in irritation and steadied her grip on the Beretta's.

"Enough of this running shit, if I'm going to take a dirt nap, I'm making sure that I'm taking a few of these bastards with me." declared Revy with more conviction than she felt. Her Beretta's felt comforting in her hands, the well worn grips fit perfectly into her hands. If she was going to die in a back alley like her bitch of a social worker had predicted she would make the price biblical. All apprehension faded, she was 'Two Hands', the most feared gunslinger in Roanupur, Revy stood like a statue preparing for the guerrillas to make their move. She didn't have long to wait, before a jeep slewed to a halt at one side of the alley way and two men with AK's levelled their rifles at her, just as another vehicle pulled up behind her.

"Sister, get down please," said a feminine voice in broken English. Revy threw herself backwards on reflex, just in time to see several throwing knives take a hissing path over her head, impacting the terrorists with a wet thump. They went down and Revy was already facing the newcomers.

"You get in," said the oriental woman with the blades. She was wearing a flowing silk dress that cut off at the hips and had only strips of silk covering her front and back. She was wearing a thin white coat over top of it and a long braid of jet black hair hung down her back. The Land Rover started pulling away and Revy had to run after it then jump in the rear of the vehicle. Rounds chased after them, but they never caught them.

The Land Rover sped out of town and started heading towards the American DMZ line. Once they crossed it, they would be completely safe from the guerrillas, but they didn't have Rock.

"Chang send us to do good job, but ass holes already there so we wait outside town. Now we have goods and go yes, understand?" The Thai woman spoke to Revy, wiping one of her knives that were hooked to a leather cord with the hem of her jacket.

"No we don't, because they grabbed my partner and we have to go get him," said Revy angrily. She hot, irritated, and still had a hell of a lot of adrenaline coursing through her.

"That too bad, not problem. We only care about money, if your friend gone he dead so sorry." responded the Thai woman dismissively.

"No it isn't too bad, because he was the one with the briefcase and the documents. Understand yes? Thank you much," mocked Revy. The Thai woman's eyes flashed and in the blink of an eye one of the bound blades was at Revy's throat. Though the Thai woman was staring down the black barrel of a cutlass, yawning open as if wanting to swallow her whole as it had done to so many others over the years. The two were motionless, staring the other in the eye and waiting to see who would make the first move. All it would take was a squeeze of a trigger or the flick of a wrist and a life would end.

"Oh for the love of Christ, I just had the interior redone Shenhua." complained the Irish driver. He was a blonde man wearing dark green sunglasses, looked slightly unshaven as well. He was wearing a green button up shirt and khaki shorts.

"Oh not another fucking leprechaun and his piece of shit ride," said Revy morosely. If this guy was anything like Morrigan she would flip. Though Morrigan was fun to be around, she was way too fucking preachy about morality, what a hypocrite. To her surprise, the man wasn't as bad as Morrigan. He was far worse.

"Up yours you tight assed bitch, I'll have you know that this is the worlds finest off road vehicle. It's premium quality engineering," finished the Irish man defensively and patting the dashboard as if to comfort the vehicle against Revy's unkind words

"It's okay baby she didn't mean it," said the Irishman in a soothing tone of voice to the jeep as if was a spurned child who needed reassurance. Revy had to try not to gag as she and Shenhua returned their weapons to their respective holster or sheath.

"Is he always like this?"

"His brain off to Mars so much not all come back," answered Shenhua touching up her makeup with a small pocket mirror and puff. "No worry though, no matter how much he do, he never mess up car."

"That's reassuring, I guess," said Revy settling back into her seat at the Range Rover cut down back roads and found paths where it seemed impassable. He didn't even to be paying attention half of the time, but his skill was undeniable. Leave it to Chang to get the best, if slightly crazy help he could find.

"So how we rescue dumb partner and get money?" asked Shenhua shutting her pocket mirror with a light clap and fixing Revy with a expectant gaze.

"Well, I had this idea."

With a twitch and a shudder, the man died, a knife through his heart and a hand over his mouth. He fell to the cold ground in a nameless alleyway in Roanupur where countless others had met a similar fate. Beznik wiped the blade clean on the Thai man's clothes and sheathed the blade inside of his coat. He took his wallet as he left and disposed of it in a dumpster four blocks away. Who the man was didn't even matter and even his name that had been burned into Beznik's mind for the past week was erased as unneeded information.

The air was still warm and damp even this late at night, the lampposts throwing off sickly yellow light trying to fight off the encroaching darkness, but some flickered and others gave up the struggle to be consumed by the oppressive darkness. It was a struggle that went of every night until dawn when the rising sun would chase it away, but until it rose the darkness tried to creep in. Snake like tendrils of darkness tried to find a weakness, a gap in the light, or simply smother it with its weight.

Beznik had started to develop a reputation around Roanupur as a very dangerous man to cross and by extension Angelika. Even with his size and intimidating presence, he was still older and the grey hair was a sign of weakness. A sign of his draining vitality. It had angered him to learn that some street cretin had the gall to hit Angelika. His daughter. Even now that the man was dead it made him angry to think about it.

The man hadn't been too hard to find, his old skills came back to him like a faithful hound eager to please and be of service to its master. A few well placed bribes, a few rumours, a drunks rambling, some intimidation, and he had found his man. A low level thirty something small fry pusher who frequented the gambling district. A discreet tail, keeping out of sight had provided Beznik with the opportunity for his revenge. He wouldn't call it justice, because there was no justice in the world, simply orders, discipline, and protecting what mattered to you. Values were a matter of opinion and depending on the culture they varied to a staggering degree. What would constitute as a crime in one country was encouraged in another.

The man hadn't even seen him coming, didn't even know that Beznik was there until the knife was up to its hilt in his heart. Dead before he could even become terrified, professional and efficient just like he had been taught.

Beznik saw three gang bangers move to block his path, and another two block his retreat. He had seen them watching him from an the shadows like wolves stocking their prey. More like pups, mused Beznik to himself. Well if they wanted to earn their claws they could try and learn from the alpha.

Beznik wasn't wearing anything valuable and his worn leather jacket was comfortable, but by no means valuable. The steady ticking of his watch caused his to glance at his wrist. A gold Rolex, a gift from Angelika for his birthday. Well happy birthday old man, this is what you get for bringing sentimental and expensive gifts to the rougher parts of town. He would have handed it to the gangers and been on his way in a moment if circumstances had been different. Possessions were just equipment, the only difference was the quality and the cost, all easily replaceable. The difference was though, that this piece of equipment was from Angelika, and that made it valuable. Far more valuable then these street toughs lives.

"I like your watch grandpa, mind if I take a look at it?" The gangster was a younger man with piercings and gang tats on his arms and knuckles. He looked European though was probably American from his accent. A few locals were with him as well as girl with brown hair and blue eyes.

"If I was your grandfather I would have had your parents drown you at birth, now get out of my way," said Beznik gruffly knowing full well what his words would cause.

"The fuck did you say old timer? It sounded like you were talking shit to me, but that can't be right because nobody talks shit to Hammer Hands Henry. The only shit must be in your diaper old man." He did an over exaggerated sniffing motion.

"Pee you, when was the last time you changed it old man? Smells like a dinosaur crawled up your ass and died, then shit itself too." His cronies laughed at his joke and he seemed encouraged by it. "See this piece here?" asked the self proclaimed hammer hands lifting up the hem of his coat to reveal a nickel plated Python. "I've killed three people with this bad ass mother fucker and I do like even numbers, so how about you hand over that nifty little time piece and we let you scram huh? It's the best chance your gonna get around here." The other gangsters produced handguns, though the girl looked uncertain. Outwardly she was calm and dangerous, but her eyes betrayed her true feelings. Not quite dead yet. The others though, they wouldn't show much difference in a few more moments.

"How about this," said Beznik his voice betraying no emotion at all. "You leave right now and I don't leave you brat's lying in a pool of your own blood in the street. Sound good?"

The Hammer's eyes narrowed and a murderous glint sparked in their cruel depths. "Talk real fucking big don't you big man? Well let's see how big you are when there's a .357 sized hole in your head," he said as he brought the Python level with Beznik's head. Beznik stared down the Python, half expecting it to look away.

"Henry, he's an old guy. I know that he's being mouthy, but you don't need to shoot him right? He's probably just trying to act tough to save face. He's probably scared shit-less right now so how about he just take the watch and go huh? I mean look at him, he was probably a construction worker or something, you know how they are." It was the girl who spoke this time, but to Henry and her gun held loosely at her side.

"Shut it bitch, or do I need to remind you why I'm called Hammer Hands?" He brandished his brass knuckled fist in her face and she turned away subdued, almost fearful. She rubbed her tattooed forearms nervously. Hammer Hands turned back to Beznik a self-assured smirk on his face.

"You need a lesson old man?" Confidence and malice in equal measure oozed from his words, classic bully boy. Not much difference from the ones in his time, though back then they were more respectful to women and their elders. If only by a little.

"Only if you agree to let me teach you how to read," countered Beznik. Henry's snarl showed teeth and Beznik knew that he was too angry to think straight. Henry had already lost and he didn't even realize it.

"Yosakon, cap this old fuck." One of the local toughs behind him stepped right up to Beznik so his pistol was only centimetres away. Amateur.

Beznik did several things simultaneously, the first of which was take a step back so the shot missed his head and went wild. The second thing was to withdraw the K-bar fighting knife he had taken from the delta and stab it through the mans head till it sank to the hilt. The third thing he did was drag the dead Thai man in from of him, while drawing his Arcus and killing the other gangster behind him just like he been taught in the old days. Two in the chest and one in the head, even as a .357 took a chunk out of his meat shield. The fourth thing Beznik did was put a round between Hammer Hands eyes and two through his black heart, then made his friend share the same fate. The fifth thing that Beznik did was shoot the gun out of the girls hand.

The four bodies his the ground roughly at the same time, a third all seeing eye in their foreheads and one with an implanted horn. It had taken less then five seconds and he hadn't missed with any rounds. Maybe he wasn't as old as he thought? The girl was shaking like a leaf, pupils like pinpricks and tattooed arms held up in a warding gesture. Beznik calmly retrieved his knife with a sucking sound and wiped it clean, returning it to the inside of his jacket. He gave his sole attention to the survivor. He closed the distance between them.

"Shit, shit! I'm sorry I didn't mean it, I didn't know what he was going to do. Please I don't wanna die." Her voice was pleading and stark terror was plain on her features as Beznik loomed over her, his expression no different than before he killed. He reached inside of his jacket with his free hand.

"No please, oh god don't do mmmph," she was cut off as something was shoved inside her mouth. It was round and...sweet. A white papery hard end protruded from her lips. It was a sucker.

"You're a nice girl, but should avoid hanging around boys like that," said Beznik gesturing offhandedly with his Arcus to the late Hammer Hands Henry. "Or else you might end up like him. Well take care and be careful around this part of town, it's not safe for a young woman to be walking around alone this late at night." The woman just stared at him, half in disbelief and half in fear.

"Have a good night miss and remember to be polite to your elders. You never know when it may come in handy." His piece said, Beznik walked away into the night soon lost amongst the shadows, no longer walking in the light of the lampposts, but one with the night.

The young woman looked back to her previous friends and watched as pools of dark red blood spread out from them. Brats lying in a pool of their own blood. The sucker tasted bitter now, but she didn't dare spit it out.

Dutch was taking a leisurely cruise through the islands, leading his pursuers on a scenic tour of the Philippines, but it was time to end this game of follow the leader. He had replaced the torpedoes on his boat, so he had a full combat load of armaments on board. He would have liked to have had a full crew compliment and some swivel fifties on board, but he could make do with what he had. Four torpedoes and three boats to sink, happy hunting.

"Hey Benny, where are our friends hanging around?"

"They're about a kilometre back, but they've been closing the distance pretty quick since we've gotten away from the main island of Luzon. I guess that they're done waiting and are coming in to finish us off."

"Well then I guess that makes two of us. How long until they catch up with us?"

"I would say that at our present speed they'll be in a position to attack in about five minutes give or take." Dutch lit a cigarette and snapped his lighter closed with a flick of his wrist.

"Alright Benny Boy, let's show them what this old tub can do. I'll take us around to the far side of that island to the left and turn us around. You keep your eyes glued to that radar and when they start getting close to us, let me know."

"You got it Dutch."

Dutch opened the throttle all the way and the boat thrummed with power and surged ahead with renewed purpose. Sea spray came over the edges of the boat as it cut through the water and then ducked behind one of the many small islands in the archipelago. Dutch whipped the boat around in a hard turn and waited.

"They're really moving now Dutch, they'll be here any second," came Benny's voice from his personal C&C.

Dutch closed his hand over two of the torpedo control levers. "Any minute now," said Dutch to himself. The boats came around the island bend one after the other, each moving full out and swivel fifties manned searching for a target.

Dutch slammed the throttle full forward and charged straight for the oncoming boats before they even knew that he was there. Before they could bring their weapons to bear, Dutch fired two of his four torpedoes towards the oncoming boats.

The torpedoes shot from the tubes and dove into the water propelling themselves forward with deadly intent, a rip in the waters surface tracked their progress. The first torpedo slammed into the lead boat and caused it to explode spectacularly in a fireball, disintegrating from the impact with the ship launched ordnance. The second torpedo went wide and exploded on a rocky outcrop throwing chunks of stone and rocky shrapnel in all directions.

The three boats passed each other at top speed, then cut wide grooves into the water as they turned sharply to get back into the fight. Heavy machine gun fire blazed into existence, fiery red tracers lighting a glowing path towards the Lagoon. The first shots flew over the deck, or went wide with shrill whistles, painting the Lagoon a harsh red with the near misses as the phosphorous marked rounds screamed overhead. The rattle of heavy weapons fire nearly drowning out the roar of straining boat engines pushed to the limits of their designs.

Dutch tensed as the first rounds thudded through the hull of the Lagoon, making the inside of the cabin ring with the impacts and the old torpedo boat shuddered frightfully hard as if it would shake apart.

"Just hold together baby, you've been through worse than this and I know that you're not going to quit from something like this," Dutch coaxed to the old ship that had been with him for more than just one decade. Though shuddering, the old torpedo boat straightened out and pointed like an accusing finger at one of the fast little patrol boats.

"Fire three," growled dutch as he pulled the fire lever back and the heavy torpedo shot out like an obese sea lion eager for a meal. It ploughed through the water heedless of the flashing rounds overhead. Whether through not leading the boat enough or the operator having seen the torpedo launch and sped up, the torpedo shot past behind the boat heading out to sea.

Dutch cursed to himself, now he didn't have enough torpedoes to bring down the smaller boats. Dutch ducked down as rounds sounding like freight trains punched a line of jagged holes through the cabin, shattering beer bottles and making instruments spark and hiss. Dutch turned sharply and the rounds went wild, missing the Lagoon.

Dutch straightened from his turn and was face to face with a patrol boat guns flashing in the moonlit waters, casting the silver streaked waters in flashes of red and yellow.

"Fire four!" shouted Dutch firing the last torpedo at near point blank range, the torpedo launched like an Olympic swimmer, barely in the water for a handful of seconds before hitting the prow of the ship. The torpedoes carried by the Lagoon were meant for much larger ships and when they hit a smaller ship like the ones shooting up his boat, their wasn't enough left to even make a positive identification that the flaming pieces of scrap had ever been part of anything.

The Lagoon ploughed through the flaming debris, like some dark age raider hunting for its next victim. The last patrol boat was still pounding away, cutting lines like a typewriter through the Lagoons hull. Dutch had thrown just everything he had at the boats, but now there was nothing left to use, nothing left to fight with. Well that wasn't exactly true, he still had one weapon.

"Benny, hold onto something and secure yourself," said Dutch authoritatively tightening his safety harness.

"Dutch we're not going to outrun these guys and we've got nothing left to throw at them, what are we going to do?" called back Benny apprehensively shielding himself behind his monitoring equipment.

"We're not running anywhere," said Dutch the tracer fire reflecting in his sunglasses as he faced the lagoon towards their attackers.

"What? Then what are we going to?"

"Play chicken, and win," answered Dutch redlining the throttle of the old torpedo boat. The patrol boat send streams of heavy calibre fire that swept over the Lagoon and finally through the cabin causing the glass to explode inwards like glistening shrapnel and heavy rounds to scream shrilly past Dutch. He didn't move, didn't flinch as he powered the large boat on a head on course with the smaller boat.

Sensing the danger, the other boat attempted to veer off to the side at the last second, planning to circle and take down the Lagoon by way of a death of a thousand cuts. They never made it, Dutch hit them amidships and the heavy torpedo boat scythed through the smaller boat cutting it in half. The Lagoon bounced and shuddered in the water splashing up geysers of clear Philippine water as it came back to an even keel in the water.

Dutch relaxed the throttle and brought the over taxed engines back down to a more comfortable speed. He turned the Lagoon in a wide slow turn and headed back to boats rapidly sinking halves. He killed the forward momentum and eased himself out of his chair. He grabbed his shotgun from its rack and went onto the main deck of the torpedo boat.

It was a mess, the front end was dented all to hell and caved in slightly, while the rest of the boat was pockmarked with heavy calibre holes and most of the equipment on deck was wrecked. The money from the latest job would still provide a profit after this, but it would take a fair portion of the money he earned away. Dutch walked over to the railing and saw the sputtering and floundering crew of the wrecked ship. Dutch racked the shotgun in grip. Four loud resounding deep booms again broke the stillness of the water.

Dutch strode back into the main cabin of the Lagoon and stowed his shotgun on the rack. He strapped himself back into his chair and put his headset back on, looking through the holed and cracked windscreen of his ship. Dutch leaned back in his chair and felt something poke him in the shoulder. He looked back and saw that it was torn piece of fabric from the edge of a large hole in his chair.

"That close," chuckled Dutch to himself.

"You say something Dutch?" called out Benny poking his head out from his little room.

"Yeah, we've got to go get Rock and Revy now, they should be just about finished their job by now. Wouldn't want to be late now would we?"

"No Revy known for her excess of patience is she?" asked Benny in a laughing tone.

"No she's not," agreed Dutch powering the Lagoon away from the battle leaving three dead hulks behind him.

Morrigan was strapped inside the Iroquois helicopter, also known as the Huey, along with another ten Cossack Support mercenaries. A contract had come through just recently and it had been for a job in the Philippines almost immediately after she and Artyom had gotten back to the offices from Balalaikas. Beznik hadn't been around at the time so Artyom had sent her as team leader while he and Jacques worked out the fine details of the contract with their employers.

They had loaded the Huey aboard the freighter "Mermaid" in record time and they had all their gear ready to go as well. Armed with their choice of weaponry, tiger stripe jungle camouflage fatigues as well as the best armour and gear money could buy. Morrigan flipped down her NVG's and watched as the red-lit interior of the Huey was cast in a sickly green glow. She flipped them up and turned them off to conserve battery life.

"Ten minutes to LZ," came Geoffrey's voice over their headsets. He had been chosen by Artyom to pilot the helo seeing as he was one of the few pilots who had seen heavy fighting and could be expected well under stressful circumstances. Stressful counted as being shot at, a lot since helicopters seemed to be the favourite target of choice on a battlefield.

So far Morrigan had no complaints about his flying skills, he was flying low to the waters surface avoiding radar was using any natural landmarks for cover when he could which wasn't very often, but it showed that he was trying to make the approach as safe as possible.

"Alright lads you know the drill," Morrigan's voice cut over the headsets. "We hit the LZ in ten. That means that any last minute touch-ups you do now. Fix your makeup, read poetry, do your hair, whatever it is that needs to be done do it now. I don't want to sit around at the LZ because you forgot some of your gear or it doesn't work right. Once we hit the ground this lovely bird won't be coming back until we complete our objective or our mission goes completely FUBAR. Any questions?"

"I thought the lovely bird was coming with us?" said the self proclaimed joker of the group Ryker.

"Shut up Rick, don't make me shove my boot up your ass."

"So you didn't like my compliment?" asked Ryker sounding hurt.

"I did and it was very sweet," said Morrigan.

"Oh so my little dove does adore me," proclaimed Ryker to all those present.

"I'm more like a golden eagle Rick," replied Morrigan. Ryker raised a eyebrow questioningly.

"Why a golden eagle?"

"Because I'm graceful, powerful, beautiful, and if you piss me off I'll push you off a cliff," answered Morrigan offhandedly.

"Oh, well that's not very nice. But we're on a helicopter so we're nowhere near a cliff."

"I can improvise," threatened Morrigan.

"Okay, okay I get the message," said Rick sitting back and checking over his marksman rifle. Despite being a chatter box and possessing a complete lack of patience he was a good shot, though the lack of patience meant that he could never be a full fledged sniper.

Morrigan did a few last minute checks on her gear and checked the ammo on her LA85. It was full and ready to go, she slammed the clip back into place and chambered a round making sure that the safety was engaged. The clicks, clacks, and snaps were all but lost in the steady whomp of the rotors, but Morrigan could almost hear them even through the engine noise.

"Sixty seconds till LZ get ready," came Geoffrey's voice over the intercom again and through their headsets. He flipped a few seemingly random switches as he prepared to land. The mercs on either side were assisted by the crew chief and door gunner in opening the sliding doors until they locked back into place.

"Remember, move for the treeline as soon as we touch down and stay on me. We might have a few unfriendly chaps breathing down our necks in a moment or two so be ready and move fast but stay in formation and watch each others backs," said Morrigan giving her last bit of advice before they hit their boots on the ground.

"Alright go, go, go," said Geoffrey as the Huey touched down, but Morrigan and the Cossack Mercenaries were already off and moving into the treeline moving further inland.

The jungle was dark and thick with undergrowth and plant life, looking inhospitable to any form of life or passage, but Morrigan picked her way through expertly followed closely by the rest of the mercs. The jungle enveloped them and welcomed them into its dark embrace, drawing them deeper into the jungle, closer to their objective.

"So Mr. Rokuro Okajima, how are you feeling? I hope that we didn't treat you too rough on the way over here."

The man talking to Rock was the same man who had been driving the SUV, also being the man who had gotten into a shootout with Revy. He was a man moving into his later years, his hair mostly gray instead of black now, with laugh lines surrounding a world weary set of eyes. The eyes though were still sharp and bespoke the mans intelligence, whether it was learned in a university or simply animal cunning. He was also a Japanese man, the same as Rock. Rock didn't answer, merely stared off to the side. It was a hut-like building with wooden walls, screen windows, and barely enough wiring to provide the lights with enough power to operate. The entire structure was raised slightly off the ground to deter snakes, but not enough to make their presence and impossibility.

"I guess that you're the strong silent type huh? Well I think that if you just spend a little time talking to me I think that you'll find that I'm a real stand up kind of guy. So what do you say, want to be friends Roduro?" He was speaking in a friendly and familiar tone, using Rock's first name as if they were close friends or family when he was neither. Whether this was a play at trying to seem more friendly or simply his disassociation with Japanese culture he couldn't be sure, then again he called people by their first name all the time in Roanupur and they did the same to him, even if it was a nickname. But he wasn't using his nickname, he was using Rocks real name and it just felt somehow wrong to Rock. Like he was dirtying him by attatching his name to anything that happened here. He refused to answer the other man.

Rock almost jumped as a fist was slammed down on the table a few seconds before the empty briefcase was thrown to the ground, yawning open to reveal its treasure of empty space.

"Enough of this, you will tell us where the documents are immediately! If you won't talk willingly then I'll beat it out of you do you understand me?" He had curly black hair with a similarly dark moustache adorning his upper lip. Fierce dark eyes bored into Rock and the man looked like he would do far more than simply beat it out of him.

"Ibraha calm down, I'm sure that Rokuro here will be more than happy to tell us where he stashed the documents and after he does we can let him be on his way."

"He's stalling for time, can't you see that Takenaka? He's waiting for his partner to deliver the documents and every second we waste is one that we'll never get back. We need the location of those documents and we need them now! You know what the Americans could do with that kind of information don't you?" He seemed to be burning with a hate that stemmed from something far deeper than a few documents and the internal fire made his eyes blaze with the light of a fanatic.

"I know that we need them, but why hurt someone if we don't need to? Senseless violence is as pointless as a bullet without any powder, not only that but if he actually doesn't know than he's just going to make something up that sounds good to us to make the pain stop. Wouldn't it make more sense to do this more peacefully like civilized human beings rather than like the capitalist barbarians?" Ibraha gritted his teeth and let out a low grow.

"Fine we'll do this your way, but if we don't get the location of those documents by the end of the night then we do this my way, are we clear?"

"Crystal," said Takenaka turning back to Rock. Ibraha stormed out of the shack almost knocking the door guard off his feet as he left. A trail hazy cloud of smoke left Takenaka's mouth as he exhaled slowly, the red glow of the cigarette visible in his hand, his eyes fixed straight into Rock's as if trying to see the truth through his eyes.

"So Mr. Rokuro about those documents, where do you want to start?"


	12. Luzon Crossroads

**Luzon Crossroads**

The night air was cool and damp compared to the heat of the day. The harsh, rigid light of the day had given way to the twisting shadows of the night. There were the usual sights and smells of a jungle; rustling trees, chittering of animals, the smell of decaying plant matter. The smell of blood was not uncommon in the jungle, indeed blood was shed daily in the leafy recesses of the jungle. It was the circle of life and death, the hunter and the hunted. It was as much apart of the jungle as the trees or the animals. It was just at this moment, the coppery tang of blood hung heavy in the air.

"Let me guess, you can't say anything because it feels so good right?" said Revy to the guard whom Shenhua had put her blade through. The blade was protruding grotesquely out the front of the mans chest, like a voodoo doll stuck with an oversized pin. He gasped in response, a blood choked phlegm sound. He tried to raise his AK, but his brain was sending nerve impulses to a dying body and it only got halfway up before it found a break in the line. The impulses demanded a way through, but the Kukri knife was in a disagreeable mood.

"Men like to stab, but no get stabbed in return so I do for them," said Shenhua pulling her blade free and letting the guard fall. He slumped down quietly onto the jungle flooring of the Philippines. He was the third guard so far and they were only on the outskirts of the camp proper.

There was no point to hiding the body. It would take too much time and they weren't going to be here that much longer anyways. Plus once they got started, subtlety wouldn't really be required or possible. This was going to be a snatch and grab operation plain and simple.

The camp was set up like most others that Revy had seen, a ring of building with an empty area in the middle made of cheap wooden cabins. A ring on concertina wire surrounded the camp, but there were gaps in places. It seemed that it was there more to deter animals then to keep anyone out. The lights in most of the buildings were out and there were only a few guards patrolling around the perimeter. Their weapons were held loosely and many seemed to not be paying any real attention to what was going on. Too many days of boredom, and nothing more exciting than the odd venomous snake had made them lax in doing their job. That laxity would cost them.

The guards that Revy and Shenhua met died quietly. Shenhua gave them permanent smiles and lowered them to the ground quietly. Shenhua was very good at what she did, quick, quiet and very efficient. Chang picked only the best and he could easily afford them. When they were finally discovered, Revy's gun-play would perfectly complimented Shenhua's blade-work.

"Takenaka, I'm telling you that he knows something, he's just stalling for time," said Ibraha, gesturing with his hands, almost pleading with his friend to see things his way. "He knows where they are, he knows how we can get them."

"No he doesn't," replied Takenaka calmly.

"How do you know?" demanded Ibraha slamming his fist on the table. "All you did was tell him a damn story and answer _his _damned questions! You didn't learn anything at all."

"No, I learned a lot from talking to him."

"Like what?"

"Well for starters, I learned that he's a thinking man, not a fighting one."

"So what?"

"I also learned that there's only about three other people with him, and only one of them is on the island with him," continued Takenaka.

"He told you that?" asked Ibraha sharply.

"No, but just from talking to him I was able to put it together. Strange how telling a story about an old man can put a man more at ease huh? Changes the whole atmosphere of the exchange, makes it seem more intellectual and less threatening."

"Useless," spat out Ibraha. "Guesswork and conjectures, nothing hard or concrete. Might as well have invited him over for tea for all the good you did."

"Ibraha, what's the matter? You're not usually like this, what's got you so riled up?" asked Takenaka concerned.

"There's nothing the matter, I simply can't understand how you think that his hands are clean in this."

"I never said that his hands were clean, I just said that he didn't know anything else."

"You know what I mean, don't twist my words Takenaka."

"It's the anniversary isn't it? Ibraha, said Takenaka sympathetically. "I know that it must be hard around this time of year."

"It's not about them, my family has nothing to do with this. Stop bringing them up whenever I disagree with anything you do. I've made my peace with god and I've accepted their passing. Just because I feel strongly about punishing the godless Americans who let it happen doesn't mean that I'm thinking irrationally. I want results and I'm willing to get my hands dirty to get them."

"Ibraha, you always get like this when it gets close to the date they died. Why don't you talk about it with me? I'm sure that it will help."

"I don't need to talk about it," said Ibraha stiffly.

"Tell you what, you tell me about them and I'll tell you about why I became a freedom fighter. Sound good?" Ibraha stayed quiet for a long time, so long that Takenaka was wondering if he was going to say anything at all. Almost like watching porcelain break, Ibraha's face changed and he began to speak quietly.

"That damned refugee camp," said Ibraha seeming to shrink in on himself for a moment, a far cry from the righteous zeal that he had, had before. "I still see those damned hinds coming in, shooting everyone and everything. There were explosions, people were screaming and crying all around and they were dying too. Whole families were torn to pieces, tossed up in the air to come back down in pieces. I ran through it all and Allah preserved me, he kept me safe when I should have died. I lived when so many others should have instead. The smoke was so thick that you couldn't see ten feet in front of you, couldn't tell where you were going, couldn't see the death coming when it finally find you. I found death instead though. I found them and at first I thought they were just sleeping or unconscious. There were no wounds on them, no blood at all and I tried to wake them, but they wouldn't wake up. It has something to do with explosions and nerves, I don't exactly understand it, but the force and shock of it can just cause their body to quit. I sat there weeping like an infant until a friend of ours came and got me." Ibraha paused for a moment and swallowed hard as if fighting to maintain control of himself.

"That wasn't even the worst part though. The Americans were there, their planes flying overhead, but they wouldn't help, just escorted those killers away once they were finished butchering. I won't forgive them for that, I can't. Nor can I forgive the way that they left us to just sit there in our own piss as the Soviets did whatever they pleased. So many died because of their greed. I hate the Soviets for what they did and they're gone now so there is no revenge to be had against them. I hate the Americans more though for allowing it to happen. To me, that's worse than what the Soviets did. They had the power to stop it and they didn't. When I think about their apathy towards what happened to my family and friends... I just cant stand it," said Ibraha angrily slamming his fist down onto the table.

Takenaka took out a bottle of good bourbon and poured two glasses. He filled them to two fingers, then as if an afterthought filled them to three.

"Drink?" Ibraha chuckled humorlessly.

"You know I can't."

"Well then, to their memory," said Takenaka raising a glass and downing it quickly, shuddering and letting out a contented gasp.

"May they be in gods loving care," said Ibraha not in nearly as good of humour.

"Well I think that I owe you my story now don't I?" asked Takenaka his ever present grin showing, as if a smile could lighten any mood.

"If you want to, I don't much care either way."

"Well I said that I would and I wouldn't want to be called a liar now would I?"

"Oh alright, go ahead not like we're going to be doing anything tonight anyways," said Ibraha sitting back in his chair and making himself comfortable.

"Okay now where to begin? Well, to begin with I'm Japanese."

"I would never have guessed," said Ibraha humorlessly.

"Shh, I didn't talk in your story Ibraha."

"Fine, go ahead."

"Well I was born on mainland Japan, funny thing to say considering it's an island nation, but I digress. I grew up in a little town on the outskirts of Hiroshima."

"You mean the city where the Americans dropped the nuke fatman?"

"The very same. Anyway, my dad was a tinkerer of sorts, fixing radios and engines. You know, stuff with wiring and mechanical bits. Was into that stuff like a fly on shit. Well, I grew up in an area where hardly anything grew and the farmers still tried to grow a decent crop. Try telling a farmer that they had to stop farming and you'll find the most stubborn human being alive."

"Very true," said Ibraha letting a small grin slip.

"Anyways, I grew up in all of this and I was around all these bitter, angry farmers who thought that we should still have an empire. I never really went along with that train of thought. Too many young men died trying to make that happen and Japan is just too small to take on the world. Even at the height of our power we were defeated. What I did listen to though, was their anger about all of the American soldiers on Japanese soil. About how our countries policies were being dictated by the barbarians from across the sea and that Japan should be governed by the Japanese."

"So what did you do?"

"Well, I was a bit of a hell raiser as a kid. Slashing tires on US army jeeps, drinking, getting into all kinds of mischief really. I was angry at the Americans, I was angry at the old men who had lost to them, I was angry at the world in general. I started hanging out with different groups or gangs, trying to see where I fit really. It was more by chance than anything that I found the communists in my country. They were young like me and they wanted change for Japan, good change. Jobs for everyone, homes, good schooling, and an Independent and strong Japan; free from from American control and foreign influence. We started small, with protests and marches. I remember this one time, it was just pouring rain and I mean buckets. I was standing in this stupid yellow rain poncho and trying to get people to sign petitions in the middle of the night, to ban American soldiers from Japan," said Takenaka laughing.

"It didn't last long did it?" said Ibraha quietly.

"No, no it didn't. Eventually we got fed up with all the peaceful work and not getting any results. Well, I learned a lot from my father about mechanics and electronics. He loved teaching me and I liked spending time with him. He disapproved of me hanging around with who I did, but he tolerated it. He was an old school Bushido believer. Even had an old katana sitting above the mantle, right next to a drawn picture of some distant relative who was a samurai. Well, I learned all he could teach me and used it to make a bomb."

"What happened?"

"The first time? Nothing. I screwed up and they found it, but there was a big scare and the police started watching us more closely. That didn't stop the second one from going off, hit the Tokyo police station. I'm sure you know how the rest of this story goes. I lost friends, the fighting got more brutal and eventually petered out. The people of Japan simply didn't want our revolution and eventually we fell apart. My dad died of cancer and then I wondered a bit, looking for another cause to take up. Then I found you and that's my story."

"Forgive me for saying, but it sounds like you left some of it out."

"Yeah, but some things are better left in the past and I told you more about me than you did about yourself."

"Fair enough I suppose. I just hope that we can get the documents that these pirates are carrying or else we'll be in trouble."

"So what's so important about these papers anyways," asked Takenaka passing the empty glass between his fingers on the table. "what's on them? It's not like we plaster, 'we're here with this many people so please come bomb us,' on paper. Hell most of the time we hardly have enough toilet paper around here."

"It's not so much about what it could do to us as it can do to Nghiem," said Ibraha as if he had to work his tongue to spit the name off the end of his tongue. "It's got a lot of stuff about him and his ex NVA buddies on it, real incriminating stuff on it too. Smuggling, drug running, human trafficking, the whole works and what they supply us with to name a few. So it's basically that if he gets compromised we get compromised along with other groups with the same goals as us. We're just one of his beneficiaries"

"So it's because of someone else's mistake that we're losing men trying to get a few pieces of paper back? asked Takenaka sourly. "Seems like a helluva waste."

"Yes, but we need the money he gives us and it's partially our fault anyways."

"How old is Ngheim anyways? He's gotta be pushing eighty by now," asked Takenaka suddenly curious.

"He's getting old," agreed Ibraha, "but he's still as clever as he ever was. I actually saw him last month and he's getting pretty annoyed at how business is being done in his neck of the woods."

"What's been going on?"

"Well," said Ibraha making himself comfortable. "Looks like his competition has found a new group either stupid or naive enough to take on his competitions shipments and he's losing money on it. You know how it is, start flooding the demand for goods with product and the prices go down. Add competition and then you have to start a bidding war as to who can sell lower and you make even less money still."

"You know Ibraha, you almost sounded like a capitalist there," joked Takenaka.

"Just because I know how money works doesn't mean I'm a capitalist, just informed about economics."

"What's he planning on doing to the people infringing on his business?"

"His usual bag of tricks: extortion, blackmail, kidnapping, murder, and if it becomes necessary, all out war."

"Kind of sad that we have to deal with people like him though, to bring our message to the world isn't it?" asked Takenaka.

"Years ago I would have spat at such a man, but that was a different time and if you want bullets in your gun, you can't pick and choose who you become friends with can you?"

"No, but it does make our words a little hollow," said Takenaka swirling the other drink in his hand.

"It's only temporary though, until people see how our cause is just and that the world needs change."

"That is the dream," said Takenaka downing his drink. He set the glass down just as the first of the gunshots began to echo across the camp.

Rock heard the first of the gunshots and Revy's unmistakable Beretta's. He heard the rattle of automatic weapons fire and then it cut off abruptly, only to start again but sounding from a different location. Rock got off his chair and took tentative steps towards the door, wary for anyone coming through looking to punch his ticket out early. Just as he reached the threshold of the doorway, it burst open and the sharp pops of Revy's Beretta's was painfully close.

Rock saw a man in olive drab fatigues clutching an AK stagger back and into him, causing them to fall to the ground in a heap. It was at this time that Rock realized that the man was dead and he was bleeding out over him. Rock pushed the man off quickly, almost scared to touch him, the man suddenly feeling ghoulish to the touch in death, but it being even worse being pinned beneath him.

Revy was standing in the doorway, grinning like a blood crazy Cheshire cat, twirling one of her Beretta's around her hand.

"Hi Rocky baby, did you miss me?" she asked like an overly sweet girlfriend or an older woman talking to a pet. "Now you went and got lost on me, but if you're good I'll take you to the fair and even buy you some cotton candy. Does that sound nice sweetie pie?" Rock couldn't help but smile.

They left the building in a hurry and men were already emerging from the surrounding houses, jackets undone and flapping with their motion and their only armour being undershirts. Rock saw a guerrilla run around the far side of the house on Revy's blind side, AK levelled at her head.

"Look out!" yelled Rock, trying to warn Revy of the danger. Revy was too late to shoot the man behind her, because Shenhua beat her to the punch. A roped kukri knife whizzed passed their heads and embedded itself in the mans chest with a meaty thunk. It was pulled free with a wet squelch and returned to the hand of its owner.

"You find partner now? We go get paid now?" asked Shenhua wiping off the blade of her kukri with her sleeve.

"Yeah we're going to get paid," said Revy irritably. "By the way Rock, this chinglish piece of work in Shenhua."

"Watch your tongue twinkie or you lose it," said Shenhua throwing her blades into the chest of another guerrilla.

With a roar of an engine, a Land Rover sped into the camp slewing back and forth between the guerillas and in some cases running them over. It skidded to a halt in from of them and Shenhua opened the rear door and pulled Rock inside while Revy covered them. When she piled in, the Rover sped out of the compound, tires spinning and kicking up dirt.

"I can't believe we made it," said Rock sinking back into the padded seat and relaxing, even as rounds flashed by on either side until they cleared the boundary of the camp.

"Yeah, well it was no thanks to you," said Revy checking the load on her Beretta's. "Dumbass," she muttered to herself.

"At least now we have package," said Shenhua taking out a pocket makeup kit and looking at her self in the mirror.

"Well um, actually I don't have it. The suit case was empty," said Rock sheepishly. Shenhua's eyes flashed as sharp as her blades.

"What?" she demanded snapping her compact closed and facing Rock.

"Relax, I got the papers," said Revy self assured.

"You have them entire time?" said Shenhua incredulously. "Then why we save dufus?"

"Because Dutch told me to look after him and if I didn't bring him back he would have been pissed. So I thought that he was worth the extra effort to save his miserable little life."

"Thanks," said Rock not sounding thankful in the least. Shenhua let out a huff of annoyance and returned to her gaze to her side of the Jeep, sticking her nose up into the air.

"Hey Irish, think you could step on it? There's no doubt that those assholes back there are gonna be coming after us." For a moment, Revy thought he hadn't heard her, but when he turned around to talk to her, there seemed to be a light sheen of sweat on his face and a little patch of white stuck on the stubble under his nose. It was also at this time that Revy noticed the little baggy of shrooms that was half full, mixed with cocain. "Oh fuck," said Revy bleakly.

"Faster? Sure I'll go faster. Pedal to the metal, by the grace of god and Ireland let's go. Let's go!" Revy had to brace herself as the Rover spun around and accelerated with a roar back towards the guerrilla camp. So instead of getting farther away from danger and the bullets, they were going to just drive straight back into the maw of the beast.

"What the hell are you doing?!" shouted Revy, half in surprise, half in outrage as the outskirts of the camp became visible once more. If anything though, they were even less prepared than they were before, having begun to prepare their jeeps for pursuit. After all, who in their right mind would ever head back into the middle of a lions den after escaping? You would have to be either crazy or stupid. The truth was high on a blend of cocaine and hallucinogenic mushrooms. "Goddamn it," said Revy rolling down her window and riding on the sill, shooting at anyone who moved. The return fire was sporadic at best and at worst not even pointed at them.

They drove in a fast lazy circle around the camp before leaving out the front again firing all the while. Revy pulled herself back inside the Rover again, not happy at all. It didn't help that the driver was babbling on about Captain Kirk and the Enterprise of aliens.

"He do that sometimes," said Shenhua seemingly unconcerned.

"He almost got us killed," protested Rock.

"So did you," countered Shenhua to which Rock had no answer.

"Is it good to go?" questioned Morrigan to her team of Sabre's.

"Yeah, should hold up just fine," said Ajax, a man from Greece who had been kicked out of the engineering corps for selling military demolition supplies to Bulgarian mafia families. He had a deep Mediterranean complexion and a handsome face that was marred by an ugly scar mottling a cheek. He said that it was from a demolition accident, but it looked more like someone had taken the bad end of a bottle to his face.

"Okay lads take your positions and let's do this proper," said Morrigan heading back into the treeline, the sounds of automatic weapons fire and pistols unmistakable now. She kept the activation switch in her hand and stayed in line with the spike strip so that she could activate it at the best possible time where it couldn't be avoided. She hadn't really worked with these before, but Lawrence was an ex-state trooper from the US and he assured her that it would work just fine. Morrigan hoped that he was right, because if he wasn't then they were going to be out a contract and out some prestige. So far Cossack Support hadn't failed on a contract since coming to Roanupoar and she didn't intend on being in charge of the mission that did.

The gunfire stopped before the vehicle got to them, the first thing to appear was a pair of stabbing headlights, followed shortly by a bullet riddled Land Rover. Morrigan saw it pass Ryker's position and readied her thumb over the button. The sound of the Rover got progressively louder as it got closer and Morrigan did a mental count until she could thumb the button. She could just make out the outline of the people in the Rover. A rocket, mines, or better yet and IED would have been much better in destroying the Rover, but the client had been very adamant about retrieving the papers intact and unharmed, so here they were about to risk their lives in a firefight. Despite it all, Morrigan got the tingly sensation in her fingertips which spread to her arms and up her neck which made her shiver. She had so much pent up energy and tension right now that she just couldn't wait for the bullets to start flying, at least then she would have an outlet for it.

Sometimes Morrigan wondered if there was something wrong with her for enjoying getting into fights as much as she did. She had often felt excited or anxious right before a game when she had played sports, but never to this extent. Maybe it was just because this game was always worth all the marbles and 110% was just the expected given?

Just before the Rover passed them by, Morrigan thrummed the activation switch and the teeth switched up with a soft pop. The pop of the tires however was much louder and the Rover slewed from side to side before digging too hard into the soft ground and rolling end over end. The glass shattered out of the windows and the windshield spider webbed before blowing out; the rims still spinning in the air with scraps of rubber stuck to them. Steam hissed angrily from the ruined engine of the Rover as the headlights flickered and died. After a few quick hand signals, Morrigan levelled her LA85a2 and advanced on the jeep with a group of Sabre's.

They put a loose perimeter around the upended Land Rover and watched for movement. With any luck all occupants aboard would have died in the crash and they would just have to collect the package. However, as in all things, nothing is ever easy.

Revy groaned and crawled her way out of the Rover, Beretta in hand, shifting glass as she went. Just as she was exiting the broken window a combat boot stepped down on her hand, pinning it to the ground and a rifle barrel was pointed in her face.

"Revy?" said a feminine voice with an unmistakable Irish accent. Revy looked up into the masked and helmeted face of Morrigan in night fatigues and a questioning look in her face. "You're the one moving the documents?" Revy spat out a wad of bloody phlegm on the ground even as Morrigan removed the cutlass from her pinned hand.

"Yeah, what the hell are you doing here? I thought Balalaika told you guys to back off?"

"We don't listen to Balalaika anymore Revy I guess you didn't get the memo." Morrigan's tone faltered slightly like someone caught in an embarrassing lie. "I know this isn't worth much, but...I'm sorry that it's you that's here and not someone else. If I would have known that it was going to be you on this job I wouldn't have volunteered for it. Revy I didn't know it would be you," said Morrigan unable to look directly into Revy's eyes.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" demanded Revy trying to free her hand.

"No one's supposed to survive from the delivery crew Revy. No witnesses. Complete deniability that way. I know that you know what I have to do now don't you? I'm sorry Revy, truly I am sorry. It's just business though," said Morrigan trying to justify killing someone she considered a friend, who to be fair could kill her in a drunken rage, but still a friend. "You know that if I had it my way...It's just business," said Morrigan sounding mournful, but sighting down the length of her rifle at Revy's head. "Goodbye Revy, please don't hold a grudge about this."

"You fucking bitch," spat out Revy along with more bloody phlegm. "Burn in hell."

"We got jeeps," came the call from one of the Sabres farther up. The warning was a little late because a moment later a jeep carrying a full load of guerrillas came barrelling around the corner AK's blazing.

"Take them out!" shouted Morrigan snapping up her rifle and firing a burst through the windshield. A single round from Ryker took out the drivers side window, causing the jeep to slew to a stop and the remaining guerrilla fighters to get hosed down with automatic, suppressed fire. More jeeps kept coming though, soon outnumbering the sabres.

"Clyde, get the package!" shouted Morrigan to a nearby Cossack merc as she took cover behind the stalled jeep. He nodded in affirmation and dashed to the overturned Rover intending to put a bullet through each of the delivery crews heads. Clyde had been an infantryman in the US army prior to his dishonourable discharge in early 91 after striking a superior officer in on his on the side drug trade. Neither he or the officer had wanted the issue of the drugs brought to light, so Clyde kept quiet about the drugs in exchange for getting off without serving time. Clyde was well trained with the M16A2 cradled in his arms and confident in his ability to fight. He brought his rifle in line with Revy's head and squeezed the trigger. Blood splayed out in a wide arc.

Shenhua twirled her linked kukri around her arm as the Sabre fell first to his knees, then to the ground, blood staining the front of his night fatigues and top of the line Kevlar armour a ruddy red. A gaping gash in his throat, his mouth still working convulsively and hands grasping at his throat. A quick swing of her linked kukri's ended Clydes life, the blade finishing off the ex-infantryman.

"All men do is shoot," said Shenhua laconically. "They never like to take." Revy brought herself to her feet, grabbing her cutlasses as she did so. The fight wasn't going as well for Cossack, having gotten bogged down and under heavy fire. So far other than Clyde they hadn't lost anyone, but it looked like damn near a hundred more guerrillas were coming down the road.

"Thanks chinglish," said Revy taking cover at the front of the overturned land rover.

"No problem twinkie."

"Now to kill that Irish bitch," said Revy sighting down her sights. She put Morrigan inbetween the sights valley and lined up her head. She wouldn't hold a grudge against Morrigan, she would just get even.

The job had gone to hell in a hand basket far too quickly and now they were being overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Morrigan sighted in another guerrilla and laid him out with a well placed burst. It was too bright for NVG's because of the headlights, but too dark to see easily, making it a combination of bright stabbing lights and inky blackness. She was just shooting at silhouettes, assuming that they were her targets.

"Get back to the LZ!" shouted Morrigan to the Cossack mercs and they began moving in well disciplined patterns. They covered each other as they moved and went from cover to cover like well trained soldiers. "Clyde, get the package and lets go!" Morrigan stood up and began moving to the treeline when a hammer force took her in the stomach, punching through her armour and throwing her to her back. Her rifle coming free from her grasp and falling away out of her reach. Morrigan tried to cry out, but felt as if all the breath had been stolen from her lungs and white hot pain lanced through her stomach, letting her do nothing more than draw in strangled breaths.

"Fuck," panted Morrigan trying to rise but the pain just intensifying to an unreal degree. She put a hand to her stomach to try and stem the flow of blood as she pulled out her hi-power and began shooting at anything that got too close. She didn't know if she was hitting anything, but it was keeping the guerrillas away even if their bullets did kick up the dirt around her. It was at this point that Morrigan realized that she was terrified of dying. She didn't want it to end here, in the middle of a dusty Phillippine road before her 29th birthday. It wasn't fair, she had nothing to leave behind, no one to really miss her in Roanapur. How long would it even be before her family found out that she was dead?

She hadn't talked to her parents in years and had only kept sporadic communication with her brother. Since coming to Roanapur, she hadn't talked to anyone, not even her brother. Did they miss her even? Was she the disowned black sheep of the family? The daddy's little girl turned fuck-up that everyone would painstakingly remember not to bring up at thanksgiving dinner? Morrigan came to the sudden realization that she wanted to see her family again very badly.

With a sudden frenzied burst of fearful energy, Morrigan began trying to push herself up, screaming with the pain, but determined to live. She kept telling herself that she could make it if only she could beat the pain and get to the chopper. All she had to do was beat the pain. Sweat broke out on her features beneath the stifling balaclava and veins stood out clearly defined in her neck. A marine of her royal majesty's armed services didn't just lay down and die. Morrigan had proven that a girl could be a royal marine and this flesh wound wasn't going to stop her now. But, she wasn't a marine anymore. The thought seemed to drain some of her frenzied strength from her limbs. The pain eventually won out and Morrigan fell back to the ground staring up at the stars. She didn't want to die like this. Morrigan swapped mags in her hi-power and kept shooting at the guerrillas.

"Well I guess that solves that problem," said Revy as Morrigan was hit and fell to the ground from a gut wound. "Guess she's really sorry now," said Revy chuckling at her own dark humour.

"We go now," said Shenhua pulling her companion from the wrecked rover. "You have no car to drive now, this one no good."

"My baby's gone? Did the aliens get it?"

"Yes aliens from mars, they do bad things to car now we take good jeep because car bad now. It alien car now."

"I don't want an alien car, let's get the bloody hell out of here!" said Shenhua's friend as he bolted towards the idling jeep, throwing the dead driver to the ground and strapping himself in. He was apparently more scared of an alien car than the rounds zipping over his head and lighting up the night with bright yellow muzzle flashes.

"Come on Rock, get your ass moving," said Revy firing at the blockade of Guerrillas behind them with unnerving accuracy. Shenhua pulled the rest of the dead out of the jeep, leaving just the bloodstained interior as a reminder of its previous occupants. Rock began running to the jeep but was distracted by a cry of pain. It was Morrigan trying to push herself up off the ground, before she lost the contest with gravity and came crashing back down.

"Rock come on," yelled Revy. Rock looked between the jeep and Morrigan before making a beeline for the downed Irishwoman. "Dammit Rock," called out Revy after him.

When Rock reached Morrigan she turned on him like an animal caught in a trap, feral almost. Her browning held rock steady, aimed at his head. She seemed surprised all things considered, in extreme pain, but surprised. Rock bent down and tried grabbing under her arms, only to be pushed away roughly.

"What the hell are you doing?" demanded Morrigan through clenched teeth, wild animal like eyes piercing him.

"I'm saving your life."

"But, why?"

"Because I don't want you to die, that's why," said Rock frustrated with everything going on and someone questioning why he was helping them when he didn't know why anymore than he had a compulsion. He felt the need to help people and sometimes he just did it without really thinking about it. Rock noticed a strange look come over Morrigan's eyes as he said it, the animal ferocity seeming to ebb away out of them. Her eyes took an a curious aspect to them, almost wonder. As if she really wanted to believe what he said, but was wary of him deceiving her She almost looked peaceful then, despite the circumstances.

"I'm going to scream when you start moving me," said Morrigan seriously. "I'm going to beg you to stop moving me, I'll say things, scream, cry, whatever it is I do you tell me to shut the fuck up and keep pulling okay? I know that you've got no reason to help me, but, thank you. Rock."

"Okay," said Rock getting a firm grip under Morrigan's armpits and began to pull. True to her word, she did start to scream, beg, and cry. Rock ignored her frantic pleas for him to stop and pulled her the rest of the way to the jeep. Bullets buzzed by his head the entire time that he was pulling Morrigan, but miraculously not a single one so much as grazed him.

"Rock what are you doing? Drop the bitch and let's get going or did you forget that she was going to put a bullet in your head?" said Revy sharply, gesturing with her Cutlass Beretta. "She's dead weight." Rock looked down at the injured woman before him, hurt and vulnerable and he refused to do as Revy said.

"I didn't forget Revy, but I'm choosing to help her because I'm not a killer. I help people Revy, I don't put a gun to anyone's head or leave them to die," said Rock as he pulled a groaning Morrigan into the back of the jeep. "I'm not an animal." The last comment seemed to dig particularly deep in Revy and she growled out something as the jeep sped away that Rock didn't quite catch. She seemed to just take out her anger on the troops behind them though, firing with a cold rage instead of the usual manic glee.

"I can't breathe, I, I can't breathe," said Morrigan faintly beside Rock but with a hint of desperation. Her breathing was rapid and shallow, like she couldn't expand her chest enough.

"Just hold on, um okay," said Rock as he took off her helmet and started undoing the constricting combat harnesses and body armour. As Rock removed her balaclava, he noticed that she wasn't holding her stomach wound anymore and blood was leaking out at an alarming rate. Rock put his hand to the wound and formed the best seal that he could around it. Morrigan was breathing now, if a bit laboured and a sheen of sweat was evident on her pale face.

"I think I'm dying," said Morrigan sleepily, with an almost happy smile on her face. She smiled gaily and stared up at the stars as if she didn't have a care in the world.

"You're gonna be fine," reassured Rock. "We've just got to get you to a hospital." He tried to make his words as reassuring and hopeful as possible, but Morrigan only looked at him with that sleepy empty smile. If anything the smiling worried him more than the screaming or the crying.

"Heh, trying to reassure me Rock? I've done that before too. You let them think everything's going to be fine so that's it's easier for them to fall asleep and fade away peacefully. It's not a, bad way to go, and everything's, already turning to grey you know?" Morrigan's speech was becoming disjointed and she looked dangerously close to falling asleep. Rock pushed on the stomach wound. The response was as instant as the guilt.

"AH, FUCK!" shouted Morrigan in pain, becoming very much awake. She thrashed weakly and Rock pushed her down so that she stayed on the floor of the jeep so that she wouldn't exacerbate the wound anymore than she already had.

"You're not dying," said Rock. "I'm not going to let you." Morrigan gripped onto Rocks hand with a hold that he was sure was going to break it. Her hand felt cold and clammy like that of a fever victim.

"Don't let go Rock, I don't want to die. I'm not ready. Please." Rock was sure he saw tears in her eyes as she said it. Not knowing what to do, Rock gripped her hand back, even though it felt as if she was going to crush his in her grip. Rock held onto her the rest of the way to the American DMZ. She never once relaxed her grip as if holding on to Rock was the only thing holding her in this world.

"Dammit Ibraha, why did you make me do it?" Tankenaka pushed one of his best and only friends out of the jeep onto the cold Philippine ground in the middle of nowhere. He had lost his mind, given into his hate and been willing to sacrifice everything to make one last strike against the Americans. One last act of defiance against the world, his last anarchistic rejection of everything western. He had left him no choice, too many good men had died tonight because he sent them before they were ready, sent them with no real idea what to do. His orders had contradicted each other and sent men scrambling in every direction. Was this going to be his end too, or was his end to be different?

Maybe he was going to die an old man surrounded by a litter of grandchildren, but he doubted it. If he left the cause now it would be like it wasn't for anything at all. That was one thing that he couldn't accept, he couldn't let all of it have been for nothing. The sacrifice, the blood, the dead men and the lost time. It was worth something, it meant something yet and he wasn't going to let it be for nothing. He cast his gaze over at Ibraha once so impassioned and full of life, now just dead. He wouldn't let Ibraha have died for nothing.

Takenaka started the old military surplus jeep and started driving. He didn't drive anywhere in particular, just drove to pass the time and think. When the dawn light finally broke over the Philippines he got out on top of a hill and watched the sunrise break the gloom of the night and wash it away. A crackling radio demanded his attention and he answered it. There was still a cause to support and as long as it was worth fighting for he would be right there for it.

Rock watched as Morrigan was looked after by US military surgeons, an oxygen mask placed over her face and sent away on a gurney by a quartet of medical personnel. Rock had a strange feeling that Morrigan watched him for as long as she could before being rushed into a medical tent for emergency surgery. Revy wasn't pleased in the least.

Revy walked up to Rock quickly and purposefully after she gave the documents to the CIA officials and grabbed him by the collar.

"Mind explaining what was going on with your little girlfriend Rock? Hoping to get a sympathy fuck out of it or do you get a sick thrill out of helping hurt dogs? Because last I checked, right up until she got her little flesh wound she was going to put a bullet in your head without a second thought. You think that she would have done the same for you Rock? Well here's a shocker, she wasn't and you know why? She's not stupid like you are. You going to feed the dog that bites you because it starts to whine and you feel bad for it? Think that makes it so that it's going to stop biting you out of gratitude? No. The next time it benefits the dog it's going to tear your throat out Rock and piss on your corpse."

"I don't care what you think," said Rock brushing off Revy's hold on him. "I helped her and she's going to live because of it. She wasn't some dog that bites, she was a person who was scared of dying and now she's going to live. I saved a life Revy, I saved someone today and it felt good. You know why it felt good Revy? It felt good because it was the right thing to do and I did good. I did the right thing and I'm not going to say I'm sorry for it, I've already told you that I'm not apologizing for anything anymore."

"Fucking idiot," growled Revy stalking away. She thrust her hands into her pockets and walked with her head down like she just wanted to rip something apart. Rock just sat down on a crate and had a smoke. He used his left hand to hold it, so he wouldn't get any blood on the filter. The smoke felt good as it entered his lungs, relaxing. It was then Rock realized that he was very hungry. With an errant toss, he threw away his cigarette and ground it out. Time to find something to eat.

"So, it was a failure? Four dead? We didn't get anything out of it? Who all got shot? Morrigan...you're sure? Did you see the body for sure? Well did you check for goddamn pulse? I don't care if you think that she's dead Ryker, we're not leaving her or any of the others to rot on that island. No another team will be leaving immediately for the Philippines, I'm leading it personally. I pay you to pull a trigger Ryker, once you start paying my wage I'll let you advise me all the hell you want. Try to remember that without Morrigan there Geoffrey's in charge. I already talked to him because he knows how to follow the chain of command. Goodbye Ryker." Artyom hung the phone up and put his head in his hands, leaning on his desk.

What a goddamned mess this turned out to be. Three KIA, one MIA and nothing to show for it but blood. They were just supposed to have hit the delivery crew, eliminated them, then exfiltrated. It was supposed to be a one night operation, less than a single day and it had failed. The client had paid in advance and would now require a full refund of their down payment because it was Cossack that messed up. Not some village hick, mercenaries that he had taken the time to train and equip. This would mean a loss of reputation, it didn't matter how many freedom fighter they took with them. Freedom fighters, the word tasted bitter and unclean in his mouth. Like saying it made him need to wash his mouth out with soap.

Loss of reputation aside he felt deep regret and sadness. If Morrigan was dead, he didn't know what he would do. She was more than a hired gun, she was his friend and confidant. He trusted her explicitly like he did Angelika, Beznik, Brent, Jacques, and now even Geoffrey. She wasn't a person he could just replace. Just like in the 103rd, you didn't replace the people who died, you got feet to fill the boots no matter how small the feet. If Morrigan was dead, he could get over it, but he didn't want to. He trusted Beznik in the field because nothing short of a demon could kill him. He didn't fear for his safety as he would for say Angelika or Brent, but he never really thought that he would ever die. He never really thought that any of them would ever die. Perhaps he had began feeling that they were invincible of late. Add to that the fact it was the middle of October and it seemed the old and the new were converging to make his life hell.

Artyom felt a sudden need to fly, to fight. He felt the need to fly into battle, to take his frustration out on something. Someone. Rising from his chair, Artyom grabbed a vodka bottle from his liquor cabinet and poured two shot glasses full of Vodka. Before he could drink any though, Jacques entered from his side office.

"I could not help but hear that you got a phone call. May I perhaps ask what it pertained to?" said Jacques acting every bit of a French gentleman.

"The mission," said Artyom curtly pulling out an old, but well cared for flight suit out of a foot locker behind his desk. He handled it gingerly and set the folded article on his desk.

"I assume it went well and the documents pertaining to Ngheim were recovered? After all, what else can one expect from Cossack, but success?"

"No we didn't get it and Morrigan might be dead." A slight twitch flexed Jacques aging face and he walked over to the hangar window casually.

"Were any of the notes read at least? The client was very adamant about finding a certain person and those documents are key."

"Maybe," said Artyom noncommittally. Aryom was sure that he saw Jacques clench his fist briefly, before relaxing it and facing him.

"Anything recovered would be very useful. Was there anything recovered, anything read? A name, a location, money transfers, by god at least something that we can use. I need something to go on."

"Look I already said that I don't know," said Artyom sharply. Jacques walked up to a distance where it was considered to stand to have polite conversation.

"Well maybe you should take more of an interest in actually running your business and knowing these things hm? You're in charge of what happens here, responsible for the people here. How about you start acting like it?"

"I don't pay you to criticize me," said Artyom angrily. "I don't know because they didn't tell me and they said they don't have the package so I assume that they didn't read it. I know what happens in my operations here in Roanupur and I deal with it. That satisfactory enough, or do you want it in triplicate?"

"You were correct in one thing Artyom, you don't pay me to criticize you, you pay me to make sure your business doesn't go bankrupt. And since that you know so much, I assume you are aware that the Colombian's attacked our holding at the airport this morning because of your business venture there."

"It was your idea to take over the airport like we did," retorted Artyom.

"Yes, but I didn't expect you to go about it like a buffoon and make demands as you did. Now we have to deal with this problem and call a meeting. Since that you are in charge, do you want to call the meeting or should I? We've lost three sabres we had stationed there as security, it wasn't pretty." Jacques was being unusually sharp and critical and Artyom really wasn't in the mood.

"The Colombian's attacked us? Killed my men?" asked Artyom far too quietly for someone having a heated argument.

"Yes, so should I fix the matter or should you?"

"Let me fix it, I've been waiting for an opportunity for something like this."

"Actually started reading more than fiction and plan on solving problems by yourself like a grownup? Or do you need be to hold you hand so you don't get scared?"

"Don't worry, I'll take care of it."

"Well than Artyom, it that case I bid you adieu and hope you handle this better than your ineptness with this latest job. I'll be in my office doing work if you need me. Jacques turned abruptly and walked back to his office, his newspaper tucked tightly underneath his arm. He shut the door and the blinds shifted back and forth so hard that Artyom wondered if they were going to break off.

"*I intend to solve things immediately, and permanently,*" said Artyom donning the old flight suit with a painstakingly sewn on pair of flight wings. He ran a hand affectionately over the shoulder flash on the worn flight suit. He would settle things like he had in the old days. When he had lost friends before, the retaliation had been swift and massive, with no concern for collateral damage and they had worked. A mission of vengeance wouldn't bring back the fallen, but it would avenge them. The unit insignia was a little faded, but still very visible. 103rd Guards Division, Soviet Union.

Miguel Contreras was Albrego's second in command and a native born Colombian. His parents had worked in the cocoa fields when he had been growing up and he had worked alongside them. He had seen the poverty, the squalor, the dead end life that his parents lived and he wanted no part in it. Miguel had soft hands with old scars, because he had sworn that once he had gotten out of those fields he would never do peasant work again.

Growing up he had seen the lavish life lived by the cartel lords. Their large homes, their fast cars, the women, the food, the power. He had worked his way up from the very bottom rung of the cartel and had clawed his way up every rung. He had advanced quickly because he had been willing to do anything and everything to make it, to get what he wanted. He was a peasant boy from the fields so no one really took him seriously. Most thought that he would only rise to soldier in the cartel, but they had underestimated his determination. His rise to stardom had been much faster than those around him, his star burning just a bit too bright for some. The cartels were always looking to expand and when they put their eye on Roanupur Miguel had jumped at the chance to leap several rungs of the cartel ladder. He had called in favours, done favours, pulled strings, and put more than one potential rival six feet under.

Miguel's villa was a lavish affair, done to Colombian style perfection. The Spanish tiles on the roof were a soft red hue and the wide veranda offered a great view of the Roanupur harbour and city. There was a tennis court, pool, and a tropical garden all within its walls. The Main house itself was three stores and 20 000 square feet, with numerous outbuildings and garages. The villa was perched on top of a large hill, nearly a small mountain outside of Roanupur and the only way up was a narrow winding path that was barely wide enough for a single vehicle. In addition to being a luxurious home, the villa was also a fortress. The wall had reinforced concrete and re-bar behind the sandstone exterior, with motion sensors and pressure gauges built in. Obvious and hidden cameras watched every square inch of his property, and he had a direct line to the Roanupur police station with the equivalent of a SWAT team on standby to protect his house. Not that he really needed it. Miguel had damn near twenty cartel soldiers at his Villa, plus a large household staff who knew how to handle themselves in a fight. The windows in his house were all bullet proof up to 7.62mm and he had a veritable bunker of a panic room in the basement. Miguel liked to sit on the veranda and look out over the city like he was king and Roanupur his fiefdom.

Miguel liked three things in life and only three things. The first thing that Miguel loved, was beautiful women. They had never even looked at him when he was a peasant, wouldn't even give him the time of day. Now he had nearly every woman in Roanupur vying to decorate his arm, and a different one every night. The second thing that Miguel loved, was money. There had been many nights in his childhood when he had gone to bed hungry without a proper meal, or had worn patched and third hand clothes. He had walked in bare feet wherever he had gone, sometimes gotten a ride on a mule drawn cart. If he was extremely lucky, he would get a ride in the back of a lorry that a kindly old farmer had used to help move his livestock. Now Miguel ate sumptuously every night, with fine imported French wines and roast pheasant, Peking duck, beef steak, lobster, souffle, cake, or anything else that he could ever desire or have an appetite for. His clothes were Armani, Dolce & Gabbanna, Hugo Boss, or Gucci. He had a personal masseuse that gave him a treatment everyday and he drove a Ferrari; If he wanted a change though, he would drive his Lamborghini or Porsche. Miguel was scrupulous in his efforts to erase every trace to his impoverished upbringing, but there was one thing that he loved above all else, even more than life itself. Power.

It was like cocaine, but better. It was intoxicating and the sheer godlike feeling it gave could never be replicated by a drug, because it was better. It was real. To have the power of life or death over men, to have them grovel at your feet and lick the shit from your heel and say it was gold, was better than sex. It was the one driving reason that Miguel had risen so far in the cartel so quickly. He wanted power and he was willing to do whatever it took to get it and keep it. It would be Miguel's apotheosis to become the head of the cartel branch in Roanupur. If only that fool Abrego could see that he didn't have the city under control and that the cartel was a small fish in a big pond.

Abrego couldn't seem to grasp the concept that you don't settle for second place, that there was no place to be but at the top of the food chain, especially in the Roanupur underworld. Miguel spit contemptuously on the patio just thinking about it and a butler wearing a red vest and white shirt quickly wiped it up. Abrego was an imbecile who didn't understand the world. Did he think that by playing nice he could control a city full of cutthroats and killers? No. It was foolish and naive in the extreme. The reason that the Colombian cartel had expanded so rapidly was because of their willingness and ability to be vicious, to be cruel. They had gobbled up the territory of the old families who had gotten soft and complacent with their power and position; wanting to simply sit back and count their money, no longer wanting or willing to get their hands dirty. Miguel wouldn't say that he was a prophet, but he could see that if the cartel ever lost its edge it too would fall to a younger, more aggressive group.

Miguel stared at some of his "eye candy" lounging by the pool. They were young women in their twenties, with a wide variety to choose from. They were playing pool games or lounging in the sun, working on their tan. They were expensive, but nowhere near costly to a man of Miguel's wealth. Miguel considered taking one to make the afternoon more enjoyable, but decided against it. Miguel knew that he was a lush, had admitted it to himself and cut out the tongue of another who had called him one, but he was also a thinker. One thing that Miguel liked to do more than anything on a quiet day was sit on his veranda with a cigar in one hand, a drink in the other, and think. He thought about many things, most often how he could kill Abrego and take over, but he could not think of any conceivable way to do it without severe repercussions. He had even considered doing it himself, just so that he would know without a doubt that it was done and done right. It was the one part of his poor upbringing that he refused to part with, the one part that had made him so successful. The ability and desire to do something with his own two hands. Despite his ever growing paunch and his forming second chin, Miguel was a doer. It was satisfying to work with your hands and see a finished product at the end that you could be proud of. It had made him an effective cartel soldier and an even better boss. The work of his hands had a certain, extended reach now, so to speak.

Miguel's various musings and thoughts were interrupted, by an incessant thumping. He allowed a frown to cross mark his features and held up a finger. He was quickly attended by one of his many butlers. If this had anything to do with the central air system, he would be very displeased. It wasn't that Miguel cared much for air conditioning, having grown up in a one room shack in Columbia, but he enjoyed fresh air in his home all the time. Another reminder of his peasant upbringing.

"Find out what that noise is and take care of it," said Miguel not bothering to specify what it was, despite the fact that there were many different appliances and machines running at his home, all humming softly.

"At once senor Miguel," said the red vested butler, before moving off to quickly converse with his fellows. Let them worry about the noise, so long as it was taken care of and in good order.

Unfortunately, despite the efforts of his staff, the thumping not only persisted, but grew louder with every passing moment. There was something distinctly familiar about it too, like he should recognize it. For a moment, Miguel felt like a dumb peasant again, unable to understand what the strange sights and sounds of the city were and it angered him greatly. Then, like a man finding a switch in the dark, Miguel placed the sound. It was a helicopter, and a big one if the pitch of the thump was anything to go by.

Miguel smoothed the wrinkles in his white summer suit and gestured for one of his guards to come to him. Miguel dislike raising his voice, again because it reminded him of working in the cocoa fields, but also because it was so uncivilized to yell.

"Yes senor Miguel?" asked the guard respectfully. Everyone tread carefully around Miguel, for even though he very generous, he wrath was given in equal measure.

"Find out what fool of a pilot is flying by my home and be sure to get the identification number. I want to be sure that he understands how much it displeases me for people to intrude onto my home. Or over it for that matter."

"At once senor Miguel."

Miguel watched the guard run to the far wall of his property overlooking Roanupur and climb the small parapet to look over. The thump of the rotor had turned to a constant and loud roar, and Miguel just couldn't wait until it came over the wall so that he could see just who it was that thought they could disturb him.

Miguel dropped his drink and the glass shattered on the sandstone patio. Gunship. It rose over the wall slowly, like the piano he had once seen lifted into the apartment of a rich man, before he had become one. It looked too heavy to fly, like an armoured reptile with stubby arms and a black protruding tongue. Miguel knew that he had only seconds to make the decision that would either mean him living or dying. Miguel hurled himself to his feet, his white summer fedora ripping free from the sudden movement and he poured all his strength and power into speed at the same time the gunship started firing.

The sound was deafening, like an angry growl of some predator, but droning and buzzing like an enormous insect; the guard that Miguel had sent to the wall was the first to die, obliterated into a fine red mist. Red streams of baseball and golfball sized spheres of red phosphorus cut deadly lines across his luxury villa, turning whatever it hit to dust and fragments of stone and flesh. Miguel was dimly aware of the bullet proofed windows he had installed in his home, blowing out like cheap pane glass.

People were screaming and running, those with guns shooting at the helicopter, but people were mostly just running. Those by Miguel, beside him, and even in front of him were cut to pieces, torn apart by the heavy calibre rounds, but Miguel himself remained unscathed. With a final surge of strength, Miguel leaped into his pool and dove beneath the shimmering surface, just as the first of the explosions started.

Miguel swam to the bottom of the pool, holding an inflatable headrest that he had landed om when he dove in. The pool was shaking and Miguel could hear a bizarre and distorted versions of events taking place above him. The screams were warbled and the sound of gunfire was somewhat muffled. Miguel swam to the bottom of his pool, seeking the relative safety that a few more metres of water would give him.

Miguel wouldn't be able to stay under the water long, already the water was trying to push him up to the surface and his lungs were starting to itch for air. In a moment they would be burning, demanding to be filled. With a surge of elation, Miguel saw a weighted bar at the bottom of the pool. No doubt left over from that oiled up trust money brat from his party the night before, who had tried to impress some the the candy by lifting it while treading water. Miguel pulled as hard as he could through the water and grasped the bar. His fingers slipped the first time and he had to fight to get a second grip on it. His lungs were burning now and Miguel used his teeth to take the cap off of the inflatable headrest, then put his lips to it. The air was stale and it made breathing uncomfortable, but Miguel managed to satisfy his lungs.

By now, it felt as if the pool was in the middle of an earthquake and all Miguel could hear was the distorted crack-bang-thump or explosions and the steady burr of heavy weapons fire. The chlorine in the water stung Miguel's eyes, but he kept them open. He wanted to see what was going on. At first Miguel thought that his it was simply his overstressed brain and irritated eyes playing tricks on him, but he realized that what he was seeing was very real. An ugly patch of red was growing in his pool and spreading. Blood was running into the water of his pool, polluting it.

Miguel sat at the bottom of the pool for what seemed an eternity, always feeling the shaking and vibrations of explosions, the distorted voices having vanished long ago. When the vibrations did finally stop, Miguel waited at the bottom of the pool, the top now a translucent red in colour and hard to see through. His diligence was rewarded when he saw the dark shape of a helicopter fly over. His ears were still ringing so badly that he hadn't even been able to hear the thump of its rotors. Miguel stayed at the bottom of the pool until his head cushion ran out of air and forced him to the surface.

Miguel pulled himself onto the edge of his pool and stood, his shoes squelching. Miguel took in the damage to his home and estate like one long accustomed to hardship and disappointment.

What wasn't turned to rubble was on fire, and what wasn't on fire was cratered. There wasn't a single structure left standing on his entire property and the walls were collapsed in many places. The meticulously placed and expensive monitoring equipment had been destroyed. His guards whom he had assumed could repulse any threat were strewn about the lawn like so much hamburger. His 'candy' was now powdered candy, save one sitting off by a wall rocking in the fetal position and crying for all she was worth.

Miguel stooped and took a cigar out of the breast pocket of a relatively intact torso with the head still attached and bit the end off. He lit the cigar on a burning tree and looked through his broken wall to the city of Roanupur. Dark pillars of smoke rose from several places in the city and Miguel realized vaguely that they were all in the rough locations of cartel businesses. Someone was cleaning house with the cartel and had tried to punch out Miguel. Miguel had survived when all others around him had died. It was almost as if he was chosen. Spared by god to complete some purpose that as of yet was unknown to him and those who he had spared around him were also chosen, but to assist him. It was beautiful. Miguel took a long and deep puff of his cigar.

"Senor Miguel!" Miguel looked back over his shoulder and saw a single remaining guard, bloodied, but alive. Miguel smiled, here was another chosen.

"Hello," said Miguel almost serenely. "What seems to be the problem?"

"We-the-everyones dead! The soldiers, the girls, the staff, everyone is dead!" said the guard, clearly close to hysteria.

"Not everyone," said Miguel gesturing over to the traumatized 'candy.' "Get a car ready, I want to go into town and see what's going on personally."

"Everyone's dead and they're probably coming back to finish us off!" said the guard incredulous.

"Maybe, maybe not, but I am going to try and salvage what's left of this business that Abrego seems to be unable to keep together."

"They'll kill you!"

"They've already tried haven't they?" asked Miguel amused. If god didn't want him dead yet, then he wouldn't die. The guard looked at him in awe.

"You've got to be the bravest man with the biggest pair of cajones I've ever seen senor Miguel."

"Yes, I suppose I am," admitted Miguel. "Grab the girl over there and bring her along too would you? I'm eager to see what's happening down in old Roanupur today." As Miguel walked to the last intact car, he stooped and placed his white fedora on his head. He stuffed the deflated headrest into his pocket.

AN: Well here's another chapter for you guys. I haven't updated for a while so I'm putting this out now and I'll actually start working on the other one right away so that I don't just leave this on a cliff like I like to do so often. The Miguel idea just kind of came to me and I kind of like it. The next chapter will deal with the rest of the fighting that takes place in Roanupur and some other neat stuff. So as always, review and thanks for reading.


	13. A Mission of Vengeance

Men ought either to be indulged or utterly destroyed, for if you merely offend them they take vengeance, but if you injure them greatly they are unable to retaliate, so that the injury done to a man ought to be such that vengeance cannot be feared.  
Niccolo Machiavelli

Read more at . #2YWLCGqy4lXir4Gm.99

Men ought either to be indulged or utterly destroyed, for if you merely offend them they take vengeance, but if you injure them greatly they are unable to retaliate, so that the injury done to a man ought to be such that vengeance cannot be feared.  
Niccolo Machiavelli

Read more at . #2YWLCGqy4lXir4Gm.99

Men ought either to be indulged or utterly destroyed, for if you merely offend them they take vengeance, but if you injure them greatly they are unable to retaliate, so that the injury done to a man ought to be such that vengeance cannot be feared.  
Niccolo Machiavelli

Read more at . #uAk7EDhJYyeLuyjJ.99

**A Mission of Vengeance**

Men ought either to be indulged or utterly destroyed, for if you merely offend them they take vengeance, but if you injure them greatly they are unable to retaliate, so that the injury done to a man ought to be such that vengeance cannot be feared. - Niccolo Machiavelli _The Prince_

It wasn't a bad day in Roanupur, the sun was shining, it wasn't scorching hot, the gunfire was to a minimum, and Eda hadn't had an attempted mugging take place on her. All in all, it was a really nice day, and on nice days Eda liked to go to the hair salon for a little bit of preening.

It was run by an elderly Thai woman named Isra, who imported western hair care products and who only chain smoked when outside of the salon. It was on the 'better' side of Roanupur, if that was really a place, yet strangely enough was close to the docks. In most cities, the dock front area wasn't the safest or most prosperous district. Indeed, crime tended to be higher, half as a result of it being the drop off point for surly, sexually deprived sailors with paychecks to throw away and the entrepreneurs that flocked to that area. Or to be precise: hookers, drug dealers, pimps, crooks, and an all around assortment of riffraff. Though, that was par for the course in Roanupur.

As of late though, the waterfront area was becoming the safest place to be after dark and most of it was due to Cossack Support. Artyom was disapproving of violent crime so close to his base of operations and made sure that everyone knew it. If someone got mugged, or murdered in the few blocks surrounding his holdings, the perpetrator would be found and taught a lesson, usually able to walk away afterwards. If however, they persisted, they were taken care of in a more permanent way. Eda was surprised at the rapid growth of the merc group, growing exponentially through both legitimate and illegal means. In less than a year, they already had a company strength group in Roanupur, not to mention the other personnel that they had running protection for drug shipments, or arms deals. Eda had talked with Artyom at their last 'date' and had learned that they were actually taking to the arms dealing business on their own, selling a lot of old Soviet gear, as well as having grabbed a lot of surplus weaponry from African conflicts.

Her superiors in Langley wanted eyes on everyone in Roanupur, especially a potential destabilizing influence in the region like Artyom's growing private army. He was disrupting the balance of power and grabbing too much too quickly. He had shaky relations with Hotel Moscow and amiable relations with Chang's triads. At best, Artyom and Hotel Moscow were on a level playing field, at worst, they just weren't shooting at each other yet. Apparently he had had a bit of a lover's quarrel with Balalaika about territory and protection payments, but if he wasn't dead, it meant that Balalaika wasn't too angry at him. People who made her angry had a nasty habit of turning up full of bullet holes or in pieces.

The Colombians however, were pissed at him. Artyom was directly interfering with their business, and causing them problems. The Colombians were the major suppliers of high grade cocaine in Roanupur and Artyom was taking over their routes into the city. Balalaika controlled the ports, Chang the land routes, and now Artyom was taking the air routes. There had never been an even distribution of power in Roanupur, Chang and Balalaika had always been clearly at the top, while Abrego and Verrocchio had been directly below them. Both the Italians and the Colombians had neither the power or the influence to take on either the Triads or the Russian Mafia. If it came right down to an all out power struggle though, Chang would more than likely win, for he was on home turf and had access to near unlimited reinforcements from Hong Kong. Still, you couldn't just count out Cossack Support. A merc company run by a diehard Soviet soldier wasn't something that would just pull out when the going got tough. What was it with these ex commies anyways? Roanupur had had a balance of power that had been stable for more than 20 years and then Balalaika shows up with her old VDV company and inside of a year claws her way all the way to the top next to Chang. Two years after that, a Soviet airman turned mercenary shows up and starts turning the city into an armed camp. Not only that, but Eda had learned that the Mercs Artyom had trained were still active and wearing the colours of Cossack Support in over a dozen African countries. Apparently what Artyom had done was hire locals, give them training, weapons, and equipment then when he moved on he let them keep what they had and their old base of operations. What happened after that? Well they just stayed together and formed their own merc group, competing with or hiring out to the local warlords in the different regions.

Artyom was still in a precarious position in Roanupur though. Instead of being impartial like he had done before, or rather because of it, he had struck out at most major groups

The Italians were not on friendly terms with him after the whole restaurant shootout business. The only reason that he was still standing at all, was because of the sheer amount of mercs at his disposal and the firepower that they could bring to bear. Verrocchio was not a man known to forgive and was in fact known to violent bouts of rage. As deadly was Roanupur was, it was still not a warzone and it at least gave the impression of being civilized. It had police, firefighters, emergency workers, a functional government, schools, and a set of laws that were more or less enforced. Roanupur was not a war zone, and Langley intended to keep it that way.

"Would you like to try colouring your hair today madame?" asked Isra.

"No thanks Izzy, I'm a natural blonde and I like to show it. Keep all that colour crap away from me, I don't want any of it," said Eda keeping to her usual crass portrayal. Normally she didn't like being rude at all, but had to admit that it was fun at times.

"Very good then miss. When you are ready, please pay Tola at the register." With that, Isra went to go and deal with another one of her customers who favoured western hairstyles. Roanupur actually had a significant population that was from outside of Thailand, and as a result had many businesses that catered to the foreign tastes of the cities clientele. It worked well for Eda, and made it much easier to meet her CIA handler and contacts.

Eda didn't really mind her handler all too much. Yolanda was an old timer in South East Asia, being barely twenty when the whole Vietnam thing had started to blow up. Vietnam when the French had bee involved.

Yolanda wasn't officially part of the CIA, but she was what was considered as a _friend _or a _helper _to the agency. She was motivated by money and Eda didn't have any illusions about where here loyalties lay. Still, Yolanda hadn't gotten as old as she had by being stupid, especially in the line of work that she did. Yolanda could make a small time customer angry and expect things to turn out reasonably well, but if she ever crossed the CIA, there was no place that she could run and no place that she could hide that they couldn't find her.

Eda wasn't naive enough to believe that she was the only agent who was operating in Thailand, or Roanupur for that matter. The thing being though, was that she wasn't allowed to know or told about them and they weren't allowed to know or told about her. They had their own handlers, own identities, and they had their own assignments. If one was ever compromised, they wouldn't be able to give up their fellows, willingly or not.

Eda had once had the CIA described to her as a spider by an old instructor back at the farm, as it was called. The CIA was a predator that waited just out of sight after it spun its web. Each line a tripwire, a point of reference, an early warning system that would alert them to its prey and trap them, letting the spider move in for the kill. The CIA had spent many years spinning an intelligence network over the world, with many operatives watching and listening. When a strand was tripped, or something happened that unsettled the whole, the news would travel up the line back to the spider. The CIA would respond in due course after that, trapping and disposing of their pray, or holding them for later consumption. Then it would repair its web and go back from the light, acting only in the shadows, but scurrying away when brought under scrutiny. Secrecy was their best weapon and if that was ever compromised then they stopped being an effective tool and started being a liability.

Eda hefted her purse over her shoulder and admired herself in the mirror. She liked to get her hair straightened and trimmed every once in a while. Sometimes it was like she wasn't even on assignment at all, more like a paid vacation on behalf of Uncle Sam. Her Glock 17 poking out of her bag kind of ruined the image though. Eda never understood peoples fascination with larger rifles or submachine guns. Unless you were going to war, a pistol would hold you over just fine.

The woman behind the counter was a young Thai woman who had several streaks of very loud colour in her hair. She had several samples of some new makeup or lipstick on the counter that were free to try and she would always try and make Eda put on one or the other. Sometimes Eda just wanted to tell her to fuck off and go blow a goat, but she tolerated it. Tola's English wasn't nearly as good as Isra's, but she could work with most foreign customers having gotten very good at charades. With Eda though, Tola just punched in the amount owing and pointed to the green numbers showing on the till as if Eda couldn't read or was stupid.

Eda could speak Thai well enough, but chose not too most of the time unless absolutely necessary. It cemented her role as an uneducated loud mouthed gunrunner/gunslinger/criminal/nun and all around secret agent. Eda handed over the money and headed outside, to almost be run over by a black SUV as she tried to cross the street.

"Asshole!" shouted Eda after the driver flipping the bird, only have to jump back as another SUV went by, then another and another. The deep rumble of diesel engines caused Eda to look farther down the road and see Soviet built BTR 70's with their 14.5mm guns driving down the street at enough speed to keep up with the SUV's. There were eight in total and each and every one of them had the white outline of a rearing stallion with a man on its back, sabre drawn, on their sides. They were set in a convoy pattern, each vehicle's turret watching one side of the street and alternating down the line. A car got in the way of one of the APC's and was hit full on without the BTR slowing down in the least. It pushed the car aside with an explosion of sound and glass, the front end caved in and the car spun around, while the BTR just kept rolling.

Eda took out her cellphone and started dialling frantically. This wasn't good.

"Come on, come on, pick up the fucking phone," mumbled Eda to herself as she heard the phone ring several times with no answer. "Fuck Revy, the one time that I need you and you're not even fucking here. This is great, just absolutely fucking stupendou-"

"Yeah?" came the voice of the crude and not so loveable gunslinger that was Eda's friend and most notorious hired gun in all of Roanupur.

"Revy, you're not going to believe this, but everything's going to shit here in Roanupur. Artyom's mercs are rolling around in goddamned APC's and I need your help."

"Can't," said Revy simply.

"What do you mean that you can't fucking help? What kind of answer is that, there are fucking armoured vehicles rolling through downtown Roanupur and you're saying you can't help?"

"So I guess that your faggot boyfriend is making life hard for you too?"

"Yeah, and I need you to get your ass down here and help me out."

"Well I would...if I wasn't in the middle of the fucking ocean," responded Revy evenly.

"What?"

"Yeah, I'm just coming back from a job and your faggot's Irish bitch just tried to off me, then made googly eyes at Rock to save her. Fucking cunt probably offered him a blow job."

"Fuck," said Eda in frustration running her hand through her hair. "Can you at least give me Balalaika's number then?"

"Huh? Why the hell would you want something like that for? You don't even like her."

"Because I like making new friends. Why the fuck do you think that I want to get a hold of her? She's the only one who can get Artyom to settle the fuck down and send his mercs home. He _respects _her. Even with their falling out, he's still got this fucking hero-worship thing going on with her."

"Why don't you just go tell him to settle down?"

"Huh?"

"Aren't you his girlfriend or something? Just smile at him, shake your tits a little and lead him around by his dick. You are still going out with him right?"

"Well, yeah."

"Then just fucking do something about it. Oh, and tell him that when I see his fucking pretty boy face I'm going to punch it in. By the way, I'm sending you my phone bill for this," said Revy hanging up.

"Bitch," said Eda. She hadn't even given her Balalaika's number and it sure as hell wasn't going to be listed and Eda didn't have her little black book on her to know what it was. Eda ran her hand through her hair again in frustration. Guess it was up to her to get Artyom to get Artyom back under heel before he turned Roanupur into the warzone he so craved.

Giovanni's pizzeria was a pasta restaurant dealing exclusively in genuine Italian cuisine and pizza exactly how it was made back in Italy. The place should have gone under years ago, as the food they served was terribly made and terribly priced. They had only a few tables and an old frayed awning outside with a cartoon Italian chef holding a steaming pizza and licking his lips. People still ate their of course, but most people who went there were looking to feed a different type of appetite.

Crack. Sold in little plastic baggies put inside the pizza box and under the poor excuse for Italian pasta. The police knew what went on in there and either didn't care or were paid not to. It was a building that had belonged to the Italians but had shifted hands to the Colombians who had added Cocaine to the menu, as well as having kept some of the other, but less sought after drugs in Roanapur. A little bit of weed, a little bit of E, a little bit of everything really, but even in Roanapur the addicts were gloomy. None of them took the so called club drugs to just have a little fun, no, when they wanted to get high, they got the hardest stuff they could find. Some who had a monkey on their back washed it off with Jack's finest, but others had an itch that they found something just a bit harder.

"We need a cheese pizza extra topping," (three grams of cocaine) called a man in a greasy apron back into the kitchen. "Now how will you be paying?" The customer reached into the pocket of his khaki pants and pulled out a two American fifty dollar bills. He was about 21, 22, and a local. No doubt spending mommy and daddy's money on his order. It was easier to get drugs into Southeast Asia than some other places, so the prices were better than in the states, but that didn't mean that they were going to sell it dirt cheap, especially to this kid. A rich kid from up in the hills surrounding Roanapur with his own personal bodyguard in the form of a severe looking Burmese man with black sunglasses and a scar down one side of his face standing off to the side. A nice looking American Cadillac sat out in the street, doors unlocked, windows down. Normally that would be stupid in Roanupur, just asking for someone to steal it, but no one was stupid enough to steal inside of the Colombians territory, especially not right out front of one of their shops.

"Thank you sir," said the man in the apron depositing the money in the till. "Your order will be ready in twenty minutes."

"I hadn't really planned on waiting," said the kid pulling out a twenty and pushing it across the counter, which he then split to reveal two twenties. The man smiled and pocketed the cash smoothly. A few extra tips never hurt anyone.

"Hurry up with that order," called the man back into the kitchen. "Just grab something and throw it in the fuckin box." A few extra bucks wasn't really too much for his tastes, but in Thailand, an American dollar went a long ways. Hell for ten grand he could buy a bar and get dancing girls for it. Ah, that was the dream at least.

As he turned back to the front, he noticed that the Burmese bodyguard was looking a little edgy and watching out front of the shop, hand reaching inside his western suit almost on reflex. Two black SUV's had come to a halt outside the pizzeria. The man in the apron got a sinking feeling a moment before the doors opened up and figures clad in grey patterned military grade combat armour hopped out, assault rifles at the ready. He had the presence of mind to duck behind the counter before the front windows shattered inwards and lead began flying around the pizzeria.

The kid and his bodyguard never stood a chance in front of the counter, riddled with shots along with a few other unfortunate people who were actually eating at a few of the tables. Not that they were saints or anything, but they weren't even affiliated with any of the gangs or mafias that ran Roanupur. At least probably weren't. The chatter of automatic weapons fire was loud in the Pizzeria and they thudded into the bullet proofed counter or simply threw out chunks of architecture where they hit, showering the man with pieces of yellowing white tile and destroying whatever they hit. Pictures were blasted off the wall, lights burst, and rounds ricocheted where they hit metal just a little too thick, even as he was reaching for a shotgun that they kept under the counter before he laughed at the ridiculousness of it. What good was a shotgun going to do against all that out there? Was he really going to play Rambo and die defending this little shit shack? Fuck this, he was getting the hell out of here. Maybe grab a little money before he left, get enough money to open up his bar with the dancing girls. There was a lot of money in the back of this shit shack and he planned on taking it all for himself. Call it his severance pay.

As soon as there was a break in the shooting, the man jumped up and bolted for the back door behind the kitchen. If he had been looking though, he would have seen two of the mercs outside holding RPG7 rocket launchers. With a blast of smoke and heat, two rockets were sent careening wildly into the restaurant. The mercs were already taking cover behind their SUV's by the time the flames from the explosion burst back out through the windows. They tossed a few grenades into the shop front for good measure and after they exploded, the mercs made sure that the building was well ablaze before they left. A few men who tried to flee out the back door of the building were gunned down by a group of mercs in the back alley, standing in front of their black SUV. Tossing a a few grenades it, they soon left too. The total death toll for the Pizzeria amounted to 12 in all, a nice even dozen.

On the other side of Roanapur, a similar scene was playing out, except this time it was a shootout instead of a shoot up. Three black SUV's were parked outside of large strip club, but were unable to advance inside because of the intense fire coming back out at them. They would lean out from around their bullet proofed vehicles and pop off a few shots, before a flurry of heavy and diverse mixture of return fire would come back at them. Handguns, sub machine guns, rifles, shotguns, and even a few little derringer rounds were coming their way. The RPG teams were ready, but they couldn't get up long enough to get a clear shot at the front of the building.

"This is bullshit," said one Cossack merc whose features were hidden behind a balaclava. "We're getting shot to shit out here. Can't you get a shot yet Lee?"

"No I can't, because these fucking assholes are trying to crack open my head like a fucking watermelon every time I pop my head up. FUCK!" cursed Lee as a round pinged off the SUV near where he was crouched.

"God dammit," cursed the first merc again. "Where the hell are those BTR's? We can't do shit like this."

"They're coming," said a feminine merc calmly with sergeant stripes on her shoulder. She seemed almost serene in the middle of the firefight, her ebony features hidden behind a balaclava of her own.

"Yeah, well where the fuck are they?" asked the merc, firing a few more bursts from his AK-74 at the front of the building. A return shot popped the tire he was hiding behind and a piece of rubber hit him in the neck. "Motherfucker," hissed the man in pain.

The sergeant put a finger to her ear and listened to her comm bead. "Looks like your bitching has paid off Dave. Sit tight and get ready to light these bitches up."

"Bout fucking time," muttered the merc.

"Army bitch," said the sergeant to herself.

A scant few moments later, a BTR with its compliment of mercs taking cover on its side facing away from the building came rolling into view, moving slow enough so that the mercs could keep pace. It interposed itself between the SUV's and the strip club as its heavy 14.5mm gun swivelled towards the Strip Club. Rounds pinged and ricocheted off of its armoured hull and soon it's heavy gun began to thump and tear out great sections of the entrance to the strip club. Taking advantage of the lull, the mercs stood up and sprayed down the front of the building with their AK's, while the RPG teams took position. With a whoosh, their rockets flew out and detonated in bright bursts of flame and debris. They reloaded and fired again, gutting the interior of the club, all the while the BRT and rest of the mercs continued to spray automatic fire into the club.

When there was no more return fire, a couple of mercs ran up to the side of the building while the rest of their comrades kept pouring sporadic bursts of fire into it, keeping anyone's head down who was still alive. The mercs set down a few satchels, fiddled with them a bit, then ran back to the SUV's.

With the BRT covering them, the mercs got back into their SUV's and with a last volley, drove off. One SUV throwing up sparks from its rim as it did so. The BTR was the last to leave, its infantry hugging its armoured side as it drove off, throwing heavy rounds into the crumbling building. The heavy thump of its gun left the mercs who were closest ears ringing as the acrid smell of gunpowder hung so heavy in the air that it could be tasted, along with the leftover propellant fumes from the RPG's.

Rising up from behind the counter, Gonzales wiped blood from a cut in his forehead and hissed as it stung. He had a flashy revolver in his hand and a t-shirt and shorts that were currently soaked in high grade liquor. There were a few groans around the shattered club room. One of the girls were cowering behind what was left of the stage, the pole that she had made her living off of now just scrap. A lot of stuff was burning and there were a lot of dead people. Some of them literally torn apart by whatever kind of fucking tank that they had sent after them.

The tables were firewood now and the flames were actually starting to lick at the sides of the building. Gonzales was known for his temper and ruthless disposition and there was no way that he was going to just take this. He would gut the fuckers responsible for this and feed them to their goddamned children. Staggering out from behind the bar, Gonzales coughed with the smell of smoke and spent gunpowder stinging his nose and eyes. The heat was growing in the room and Gonzales realized that he had a piece of glass sticking out of his side. With a grunt he pulled it free and threw it to the ground.

"Get up!" shouted Gonzales kicking one of the wounded bouncers on the floor. "We're going to go hunt down those fuckers and make them pay! I'm going to rip out their fucking spines and," no one ever found out what Gonzales intended to do with the Cossack merc's spines, because just then the satchel charges set at the front and sides of the club went off and caved in the supporting walls. Now Gonzales didn't die from the explosion, or even from being crushed to death by the falling debris. No, he died with his alcohol soaked form catching fire like a wick and burning alive in a little air pocket in the rubble. His clothes burning off of him and only later identifiable by his two golden teeth that he was so proud of.

The final death toll of the strip club all told after police and firefighters had finished picking through the wreckage had been 55 dead, with another 15 being taken to hospital with serious or life-threatening

wounds. Only a fraction of those killed in the club were actual cartel members, the rest were just patrons hanging out for a cool drink and a show out of the sun.

Chief Watsup was sitting in his patrol car with a young and eager new beat cop who was like a puppy dog trying to please him and show how dedicated he was to the force. If he really wanted to make him happy though, he would have found some way for Watsup to be out of the stuffy patrol car and out at the golf course working on his long game instead. The kid was so damned eager to please to. His nice little shoes were all shiny, his badge worn with pride, and he was watching every single passing car like a hawk. He would learn in time though. Give it a month or two and he would learn to take the little paperclip on money and be on his way.

Everyone won that way. The mayor got to say that crime was decreasing, the cops didn't get shot at or have to worry about someone shoving a knife between their ribs on patrol, and the gangs didn't pull a gun anytime they saw a cop, and everyone made money. It was a beautiful system and one in which assured that Watsup got his new Jacuzzi that he had been eyeing.

City hall had got the idea in its head that it needed to boost the flagging morale of Roanupur PD by showing that the higher ups were just as willing as they were to wade through the growing tide of crime, drugs, and violence. That they were all in this together and that no matter how high up on the totem pole, they would all work together as one to help each other. What a load of political horseshit. The only thing that Watsup wanted to work together was his drive and putting.

Watsup would have liked to grumble, sigh, or do any number of things that showed his displeasure, but he had to at least try and maintain his image or else his performance report was going to look like hell and he did not need an audit. Although he could bribe an auditor or two and he had friends in the various gangs and mafias, Watsup had to try and at least keep a semblance of law and order in Roanupur or else he was going to find himself without a job. Hence the reason why he was still sitting in the cruiser and not just said fuck it and gone to the green anyways.

It amused and annoyed Watsup in equal measure to know that he had once been like this eager young cop. He had wanted to be the good guy, catching bad guys, get into car chases, shootouts, and keep people safe. That had been when he had still been an idealistic patrolman new to the force. His parents had been so proud when he had come home and shown them his new police uniform. His parents had even thrown his a little feast as way of celebration. He had eaten more than he should have and drank more than he should have, but his parents had just kept forcing the food onto him and the drink into his cup. He had gone to work the next day with the worst hangover of his life.

He had accepted his first bribe after only a month on the force. How couldn't he? His mom had gotten sick and what he'd been offered had been more than what he had made in a month. All just to look the other way on a simple possession charge. He had taken it and given every cent of it to his parents. They hadn't questioned where he'd gotten it from and he didn't offer any answers. He had been fearful after that. Fearful that he would be found out and that he would be thrown in jail with the criminals that he so hated. He hadn't slept that night, nor slept well for the week afterwards. He really needn't have worried though. He soon found out that nearly the whole of the Roanupur police department were on the take. He accepted his next bribe the very day he found that out.

He had risen through the ranks quickly. Partly because he was smart and good at his job, and partly because he made friends where it counted on both sides of the law. In Roanupur though, the line of law and order was more of a suggestion than an actual divider. The so-called criminals were actually some of the nicest and most straightforward people that Watsup had ever met. As long as you didn't cross them of course. They didn't bullshit around and they knew how to have a good time. The good ones kept their work and private lives separate and did what they did, because there was a demand for what they were selling and there was a huge profit in it. They were accommodating and they took care of their friends. Namely, Watsup.

Now he wasn't foolish enough to think that any of them actually gave a damn about his well-being and would rush to his aid or defend him if he was ever brought in for a hearing, but he knew that they had a healthy working relationship.

So, knowing that nothing was going to go to hell in a hand basket anytime soon, Watsup closed his eyes and prepared for a little catnap. Not a long one mind you, just long enough to give him a little more energy so that he could make it through this boring shift. Watsup awoke a short time later with a start, to blaring sirens and screeching tires.

"What the hell?" asked Watsup, grabbing at his hat as the patrol car accelerated rapidly. It quickly slewed into the intersection that they had been watching and the engine roared as the young beat cop put every single horse under the hood into speed. "What the fuck are you doing?" demanded Watsup being sucked back into his seat.

"A car went speeding by and there were two black SUV's chasing it," said the young cop, his eyes shining with manic and enthused glee. No doubt envisioning the glory and praise he would get for stopping what was in all probability a hit. "I think that they might belong to that merc group in town."

Of course they belong to Cossack Support you fucking retard! Watsup wanted to scream at the young cop. Cossack Support used black SUV's almost exclusively and they weren't afraid to flex their muscle, something that had made Watsup's life difficult more than once.

"Keep on them then," was all Watsup said, not wanting to spoil his reputation completely and technically he still had a job to do. As long as the kid didn't do something stupid like try to arrest them or god forbid try to shoot them. Most cities consider a hundred murders a year terrible and a sign that a city was suffering. Roanupur had a hundred murders a month, more probably if you counted all of the missing persons reports. They weren't missing though, if you dredged the bottom of the Roanupur harbour it would be skeleton fucking city. More than one of Watsup's predecessors were at the bottom of those pristine and sparkling waters.

Despite his misgivings about the kid, he sure could drive like a champ. He weaved in and out of traffic like he was back on the training course weaving through pylons and he seemed to handle the patrol car like an extension of himself. The kid should have tried to be a getaway driver instead of a cop. He would have made far more money for half the bullshit.

Watsup finally got his look at the car that the Cossack SUV's were chasing. It was an old dodge charger, tricked out and painted and obviously belonging to the Colombians. The two black SUV's however, were gaining on it fast and were already doing a rolling box on it.

"Should I call this in?" asked the young cop to Watsup.

"What? Yeah, call this in," said Watsup distractedly. This wasn't good. Artyom was only ever motivated by two things. Money, and revenge. Same as that crazy bitch Balalaika. If it wasn't one Russian tearing his city apart, it was the other. Why the hell couldn't they just go back home and leave Roanupur in peace? Roanupur already had enough damned foreigners and criminals as it was. Why did they all feel the need to come to Thailand to have their squabbles? Why couldn't they just be like the sex tourists who came for a month, spent all their money on hookers, and then left?

Watsup was dimly aware of the young cop calling in the chase, when the first shots were fired. One of the Colombians was leaning out the window of the charger and was plunking away at the SUV's with some kind of pistol. The lead SUV responded by accelerating and ramming the back of the charger causing it to swerve and lose speed.

"Holy shit," said the young cop, taken aback for a moment and still transmitting into to the station. "Shots fired, shots fired," he said into the radio as he regained some of his mental acuity. He fumbled for the pistol at his belt.

"Don't be stupid! You're the one driving, keep both eyes on the road and keep us on their ass. If there's any shooting that needs to be done, I'll be the one who does it. Understand?"

"Yes sir," said the young cop quickly redoing the strap to his pistol holster and focusing back on the road. Watsup had to grip the dash as they swerved around a car coming off of a side street and Watsup felt the sick thrill of fear for a moment as he thought that they were going to crash. A pinprick-like sensation all over his body and made everything he smelled acrid for a moment. The patrol car veered from side to side for a moment and when it straightened, Watsup was breathing heavy, sweat beading his pudgy face.

"That's why you keep your fucking eyes on the road!" exploded Watsup at the young man. "You trying to get me fucking killed out here or something?"

"Sorry sir, it won't happen again," said the young man, slightly fearful of his superior. _Scared of me, but not enough brains to be scared of the guys who will paste his ass if he gets in their way,_ thought Watsup laconically.

"Holy hell, look at that," said the young cop, both entranced and horrified by the scene in front of them.

"Ah hell," was all Watsup said. One of the SUV's had smacked the back end of the charger on the side, which in turn had caused the charger to spin out and lose control. Tires screeching as it skewed from side to side vainly for a moment, the outline of a struggling figure trying to keep control in the drivers seat. Finally losing the contest of control, the charger spun around and struck a lamp post with a concussion of metal and breaking glass.

With a screech of tires that Watsup barely heard over the blaring sirens of his own patrol car, the two black SUV's stopped so suddenly that their tires threw up thin wisps of white smoke. A second after they had stopped, men and what looked like either women or effeminate men jumped out. Men and women clad in body armour and combat fatigues that is and automatic weapons.

The stutter of weapons fire cut through the blaring of the sirens, and straight to Watsup's ears. Half a dozen assault rifles emptied in the space of five seconds point blank into the body and cab of the charger. What little glass left in the charger was blown out and the bodywork even more deformed. The occupants inside didn't even look human anymore, more like bags of bloody meat. One of the grey armoured mercs was putting a bullet into the heads of anyone who still had something that resembled one when Watsup and the eager young cop pulled up.

The car slewed to a stop sideways, with Watsup's side facing the mercs and the young cop was already trying to bound out of the car and draw his pistol when Watsup pulled him back in. The mercs standing on either side of their Black SUV's, eyes dispassionate and uncaring that the law had come.

"Are you out of your fucking mind you little shit?" hissed Watsup, holding the young patrolman by the scruff of his shirt.

"They just killed a car full of people, we can't just let them get away with that," protested the young cop.

"You want to fucking join them rookie? Because it sure as hell seems like it. There's two of us with these little pistols and there's twelve of them. Go ahead count them, there's twelve of them out there with assault rifles and fucking military grade body armour. You know what we've got? Jack shit, so pull your head out of your ass before you get us both killed."

"They killed people," repeated the young cop like that answer solved everything.

"Yeah, so what the fuck do you think that they're going to do to us when if we try and arrest them? We can't do shit to them."

"We're cops."

"A piece of tin, you think tin will protect you? Step out of this car and find out how bout you?" A knock on the window caused both Watsup and the young patrolman to look back. A merc standing in grey armour and an AK slung over his shoulder. He was white and the front of his armour was stained with blood. He reached into one of his pouches and Watsup felt a moment of fear, before he pulled out a manilla envelope and handed it through the partially rolled down window.

"We appreciate your cooperation and silence in this matter officers and we will clean up the mess. Have a nice day," said the man and walked away. Watsup opened up the envelope already knowing what it contained, but doing it so that the rookie could see too.

"That, that's a bribe," said the young man indignantly. "That's illegal, they can't bribe a cop."

"Do you want a lead bullet or a silver one kid?"

"What?"

"This will go down one of two ways. One, we get indignant about the whole thing and jump out, badge in one hand and gun in the other like we're supposed to. Then we have a nice service and get called heroes by a monkey in a suit and given a nice little grave plot. The other way that this will play out is that we take the money, smile and get the fuck out of here with a month's pay added to our wallets as compensation."

"But we, we can't," said the young cop, but with less conviction.

"We can, and we just did. Turn that damned siren off, it's giving me a headache," said Watsup irritably. The young man complied and didn't know what to do as Watsup stuffed a good portion of the envelope's contents into his breast pocket. "Take us back to the station, if they're doing shit like this I don't want to be out in the streets until this whole thing is over and done with," said Watsup pulling the brim of his cap low over his eyes. He slept quite well on the way to the station, but woke up several times to the rattle of gunfire and the thumps and rumbles of distant explosions from time to time. Let someone else deal with this shit, if mercs wanted to fight a war, they could have a big a one as they wanted for all he cared. Maybe they would kill off enough of each other that they would decide that what they were doing wasn't worth the money. Watsup doubted it though. It was always worth the money.

The thrum of heavy rotors filled Artyom's senses, as he flew his hind over Roanupur. There was black smoke curling up from a half-dozen buildings and locations from around Roanupur, each proclaiming the end of a Colombian business and Colombian lives. It gave Artyom a sense of cold satisfaction to know that he was making them pay for what they had done to him and the mercs under his command. It reminded his a little bit of his time in the army and how whenever someone had taken it into their head that it would be a good idea to mess with them, they would soon have a barrage of 82mm rockets and a mass of tanks to tell them how good the idea had actually been.

Artyom had blown up Abrego's second's villa in a flurry of rockets and cannon fire, and it had been sweet, vindictive justice. The thing was though, was that it wasn't _enough. _Artyom wanted _more. _Artyom had beaten the cartel so that they were on their knees in Roanupur, but that wasn't enough. He didn't just want to kick them when they were down, he wanted to beat them so badly that they would never be the same and they would never get back on their feet and if they did they would always walk with a limp. Let a cane herald wherever they went for a change, then they would see how humbling it really was.

Throwing the hind into a lazy banking turn, Artyom changed his direction towards Abrego's villa, right in the middle of Roanupur. His mercs had orders that once they were done with their own targets that they were to converge on Abrego's villa. Military doctrine would have demanded that Abrego go first so that command and control could have been effectively severed, but Artyom hadn't done that. Artyom had wanted to have Abrego see his empire crumble around him. Artyom wanted him to see his men die, Artyom wanted Abrego to _suffer. _

Who Artyom really wanted to hurt though, was whoever the hell had gotten away with the sensitive information in the Philippines and put three of his mercs in the ground and maybe another one. Artyom did care for his mercs, not as much as a military commander would care for the troops under their command, but he cared for them more than many of the organizations around Roanupur or any other group like them did for their own guys. Well, except for Balalaika. Then again Balalaika had her old unit with her as her gang. What would it have been like to have had the old 103rd with him in Roanupur? Artyom chuckled at the thought. It would have been fun, but eventually they would have attracted too much attention. Then again they were doing the same with this.

It was odd in a way. He and Balalaika had both served in Afghanistan, but both he and Balalaika had been broken and discarded by the Soviet military, and later by the Union itself. Communism had failed, it was a dream that had fallen through, a system of living that went against human nature itself. So, with all that they had ever known gone and no purpose left to them, he and Balalaika had grabbed whatever left that was important to them and left. Artyom his hind, Balalaika her men.

It hadn't been about money in the beginning of it all. In fact, it had only really been about the hind. Artyom had wanted his hind, he had wanted to fly, he had wanted to fight, because that was what he was good at, that was what made him stand out and be special, what gave him purpose. Money had been purpose enough after he had started becoming a successful mercenary and with the help of Jacques, he had built his own little Union by drawing in like-minded individuals.

Artyom had been worried when he had become a mercenary that it would make him amoral and evil. That it would change him. If wandering around Africa had taught him anything though, it was that you could not be _made _evil. You could not get an injection that made you suddenly want to destroy, kill, and maim. It was stupid and it couldn't be done. No, what Artyom had learned was that it was already there.

Artyom had seen perfectly normal, good, and kind hearted people become something that appalled those around them. Evil was in everyone, to some degree or other. Violence was natural, hate was natural, evil was natural. It was human nature to want to fight, to want to draw blood, to go to war. to kill. But what Artyom had learned was that there was a difference between human violence and that of an animal. Not saying of course that blowing someone away because it got you off was natural of course, that was just an animal in human skin playing a masquerade so that it could get drunk on blood. Not even an animal, but something less.

An animal took vengeance or killed because it was instinct, it needed to eat, or because it was too damned stupid to do anything else. A human when committing violence had to consider if the risks outweighed the rewards. If there was a definable gain worth getting the immediate rewards and having to deal the inevitable consequences. If there was no planning, no reason beyond base needs, or just a need for violence, it wasn't human conflict, it was a human acting like an animal.

Artyom had kept trying to tell himself that he was doing this in retaliation for the attack at the airport, but in reality, he was just doing it because he was angry. He might not care deeply for his mercs, but he did care deeply for a few under his command and right now one of those people might be dead.

Artyom had lost good friends before, but there had always been a release, a pressure point he could use to let it go. He had always been able to get into his hind the next day and make them _pay. _He could make someone have to _suffer _for taking his friend's life. To feel some of the hardship and hurt that he had been forced to feel. Here, there had been no way to do that. Artyom was in the position of command in a place where although not a first world country, at least it had a competent governing system and not all law and order had broken down. Roanupur was an anomaly. Something generally ignored by the government, as if when they didn't acknowledge the city and its vices it didn't exist. Still, the kind of people in Roanupur were not an anomaly, and neither was the hind gunship that he was now flying towards Abrego's headquarters.

It felt good to be flying a combat mission again, and with Abrego's second out of the way, all he had to do now was cut the head off of the beast. His third and fourth had already been taken care of long ago. The third at a strip club and the fourth forced off of the road and gunned down his mercs. With most of the lower leaders and lieutenants in Abreg's cartel taken care of and most of their men either dead or leaderless, it would be simple and easy work for Balalaika or Chang to take over their businesses. Artyom didn't count Verrocchio, because next to the Colombians, they were the weakest 'big' criminal organization in Roanupur. After this it would effectively be him, Balalaika, and Chang in charge. Then again, Artyom really didn't feel like getting involved in the whole running of Roanupur. Let the mob bosses do that, Artyom was only interested in working for his money, not taxing his little fiefdom to get it.

Artyom listened idly to the radio chatter of his own forces and knew that things were going outstandingly well for them. Apparently they were all converging on the Colombian's headquarters, all 104 of them. Well, that wasn't entirely accurate. There had been about 18 evacuated because of wounds ranging from simply making them a hazard on the battlefield, to outright life-threatening. A few wouldn't be able to fight after this and hence wouldn't be able to stay a part of Cossack Support anymore. Artyom would treat fairly enough though. A decent severance package, their gun, and a little help getting set up to live. After that, they were on their own. Although about five, maybe six would have to have funeral arrangements made for them. Casualties were inevitable in any operation, no matter the armour or arms, but it still made Artyom mournful that his men had died on his orders.

Artyom smiled as he saw Abrego's HQ come into view. It was a large terraced building with far too many windows, surrounded by a low iron fence and the building itself was only about three storeys tall. There were some people and cars moving around frantically around in the courtyard, probably getting ready for the eventual assault, or getting ready to respond and head out to fight the Cossack mercs causing them so much trouble. Too bad they would never get that chance.

Artyom centred the targeting reticule of his hind on the centre of the courtyard and fingered the firing stud on his control stick. For a second, it was just like he was back in Afghanistan with the old 103rd Guards Division. Sun beating down, heat in the cockpit stifling, rolling dunes of sand flashing by beneath him, mountains in the distance, and Yurri smiling back at him. A dead man's smile. Artyom shook his head and blinked rapidly, the vivid flashback fading away quickly so that he was once more flying above the sunny Roanupur sky. Everything going back to how it was, almost exactly the same as it had been back in the 103rd. except he wasn't young anymore. He wasn't a soldier anymore, didn't have a cause anymore, no naive dream of turning the world red. No fantasy of flying over the wall and blasting NATO tanks to smithereens as the unstoppable might of the Soviet Union spearheaded the final push to total victory. If anything, things were much worse now than they had ever been.

Artyom was minus yet another close friend and he still had a bum leg. He fought for money, he had no real ambition besides his next paycheck, and he hadn't spoken to his family in years. No honour, no purpose, no reason to continue than money and a fear of death. When had everything gone to hell? Even in Africa there had been a purpose. He had been a mercenary true enough, but he had still been fighting a worthy enemy. Men full of passion and a desire to make their mark upon the world, men who Artyom had fought and put into the ground and who had tried to do the same to him. That had been the good days, just a few mercs and his small team. Now all he did was shepherd drugs and guns. There was no real combat, and there was no martial pride in what he did now. Nothing that he would be proud to admit that he did, nothing that he would be proud to wear a medal of on his chest. The reticule had also drifted off course of the compound.

Artyom corrected it with well-drilled and cool efficiency. These mobsters thought that they could just kill his men and call it tit for tat? Had they no honour, no respect the men who fought for them? Did they value the lives of those under them so little that they thought that they were simply equipment? Things that could be destroyed to send a message or disposed of when they were no longer of use? Without even making sure that they would be looked after? It was that kind of mindset that had made them think that they could kill his men and do a little pissing match while still smiling at each other in public. Fuck that. Artyom was a soldier and soldier's didn't play political games. If you were an enemy you died. If you were a friend you lived, it was just that simple. It was vindictive satisfaction that Artyom pushed down the firing stud on the hind.

With a rush and a roar, a barrage of 82mm rockets left their pods and struck out like fiery spears towards the compound. Artyom didn't fire a burst as he had been taught to do, as he had been trained to do, but continued holding down the firing stud until all the rockets had left their tubes, then held it down still when they were all in the air. He didn't even fire his 23mm cannon as he closed the distance, just kept flying and watched.

The explosions walked their way up the courtyard in puffs of flame and debris. Turning man and machine into so much hamburger and scrap metal. After the first few rockets hit, Artyom's vision was obscured of the courtyard, but he had done this enough times to know what was going on. The sound of the explosions would be deafening on the ground, but as it was it was just a muted crump every time one hit the ground. The heat would blister and burn skin and flesh off of their bodies. The heat would be suffocating and burn out the throats, choke them on smoke, and make them feel like they were in an oven. The concussive force of the explosion would disorient them, if it didn't turn them to jelly or rip them apart. Those who survived would be disoriented, dizzy, concussed, and in need of medical attention. Stumbling around, hardly able to breath and even less able to understand what was going on around them. If they survived the last part that is.

The rockets would turn whatever they hit into free shrapnel, sending shards of stone, metal, and bone careening rapidly around and sinking into flesh and rending with terrible ease. While not accurate enough to be extremely effective against armoured targets, 82mm rockets could wreak bloody havoc amongst the more 'soft' targets, and there was nothing softer than the human body. Artyom watched morbidly interested as the rockets walked their way up the front of the villa.

The first few to make it hit near the ground floor in front of the villa, the concussive force shattering the windows higher above them, showering the area below with glittering rain. The ones after them hit the base of the building and rocked it, sending out chunks of masonry and stone in greedy chunks. The ones that hit higher up gutted the opulent upper floors, starting and snuffing flames with almost indecisive murderous glee. Flames burst out the already shattered windows and black smoke began to coil out even as the last of the rockets vaporized the expensive Spanish tiles on the roof.

Artyom's dropped his altitude and roared over the villa as he passed, hind snarling victoriously and brought the brute around in a savage turn, eager for more blood. Before it had even stabilized, Artyom jammed down the firing stud for the cannon and sent a combination of 14.5mm and 23mm rounds towards the burning villa, tearing great gouges out of the back and giving the hungry flames more oxygen to breathe and burn with. It was a hollow kind of satisfaction to see his enemies burn, but satisfaction none the less. There was a kind of allure to being able to lash out against those that made you angry. Unbound and unguided by the teachings of supposedly wiser men. Artyom didn't understand everything nor did he pretend to, but he did understand a few things. One of those things was that vengeance, while never able to fill the void left in you, felt damned satisfying to do. A bleeding heart had tried to tell him differently once, and he had laughed in the fools face.

The down-wash from his rotors pushed the smoke out and away from his hind as he watched the carnage he had wrought. It...was enough. The Colombian's wouldn't be a threat anymore, they wouldn't try to fuck with him again and if they did they wouldn't have the power to do anything and if they tried to establish a presence in Roanupur again, he would stamp them out. Thailand was a long ways from South America and now he was here. No one messed with him and no one stepped on his toes trying to get to his throat. Let this be a lesson to all the other groups as well. Cossack Support will come for you, no matter the cost. It would meet you like soldiers, not play some damned shadow war like the mafia's were so used to. It was then the Artyom became aware of the screaming in his ear. A screaming, and very pissed off voice that sounded a lot like a fiery blonde that he had failed to convince to come to his bed. Despite having been dating for almost a year. Then again there was an appeal to that, he didn't mind waiting until they got married, if they were going to. After all, Artyom had never even had a relationship that had lasted this long before anyways.

He listened long enough to get the gist of what Eda wanted, then rose, feeling the familiar and welcome shifting of pressure that came with turning in his beloved hind, heading to where his mercs had converged and where his very pissed off girlfriend were waiting for him.

Abrego groaned as he pulled himself from the flaming wreckage outside his villa. It was a miracle that he was still alive, and blood was running down his forehead from a deep gash and into his right eye, causing him to have to blink and wipe constantly so that he could see, turning his white suit a ruddy red. He crawled through what had once been a sign of power, the hot pieces of wood and stone burning his hands as he crawled, the smoke choking him. Abrego made it to the street and collapsed, a pair of immaculately made wingtips filling his vision. He looked up into the pudgy, apathetic, almost pitying face of his second, Miguel.

"Miguel, Miguel help me up. Help me,"gasped out Abrego. Miguel took another puff of an expensive Cuban cigar and tapped the ash onto Abrego's head.

"You were weak Abrego, weak and stupid."

"What?"

"You forgot the thing that made the cartel great, what made us feared. You bowed down first to Chang, then to the scar-faced Russian bitch. Never give in, never compromise, never stop. You forgot how we forged our empire, how we became strong and what kept us strong. You forgot what gave us our edge and know we're all paying for it."

"What the hell are you talking about?" grunted Abrego pulling at Miguel's pant leg. "We need to get out of here, we need to get together and...and," stammered Abrego, his mind still fuzzy from the rockets.

"We need to do nothing," said Miguel disdainfully, kicking away Abrego's hands. "We, are done."

"You're...quitting the cartel?"

"Not quite, more like...making a change in management, with me as the new manager. Goodbye Abrego, I'll be sure to give you a nice funeral."

"No wait!" said Abrego desperately as a small and black automatic made itself visible in Miguel's hand. It barked three times, each bullet going into Abrego's skull. Blood and bits of brain clung to the otherwise pristine pant legs of Miguel's slacks. A few spatter drops of blood were clinging to Miguel's face as he turned away, taking out a handkerchief to wipe it away.

"Bring the car around would you Julian? We've got some new housekeeping duties to take into order," said Miguel, walking past his stunned guard. The man had been a loyal cartel soldier, and that meant loyal to Abrego. He had an UZI submachine gun on him, but didn't dare take it out. The cold, dead, predatory eyes of Miguel scared him more than any distant repercussions from the Cartel's back in the homeland.

"Yes Senor," was all he said. Julian could swear that he saw a predatory grin on Miguel's face as he rushed past to get the car.


End file.
